On the banks where the Buriganga used to flow clear,
Stands a palace of pink that the city holds dear.
Ahsan Manzil, with its grand, sweeping stair,
And a regal aura that still lingers there.
With a massive dome reaching up to the sky,
It watched the golden age of the Nawabs go by.
From the grand ballroom to the high, arched door,
Luxury lived on every marble-tiled floor.
The French windows open to the river's soft breeze,
Past the green gardens and the swaying of trees.
Once the seat of the powerful, the rich, and the great,
Deciding the course of the city's own fate.
The chandeliers glittered like stars in the night,
Reflecting the diamonds and the silk-woven light.
From the ivory carvings to the silver-wrought bed,
The glory of Dhaka was elegantly spread.
Though the river has changed and the times have moved fast,
The palace remains as a link to our past.
A survivor of storms and the shifting of sand,
The most beautiful landmark in all of the land.
In the glow of the evening, it shimmers and gleams,
A majestic castle from the city's old dreams.
The Pink Palace stands with a dignity grand,
The crown of the river, the soul of our land.