Upon the plains where the Karatoya flows,
The ancient heart of a kingdom grows.
Mahasthangarh, in its earthen shroud,
Standing silent, ancient, and proud.
The rampart walls of the citadel height,
Have watched the centuries turn into night.
From the Mauryan gold to the Gupta's hand,
The greatest city of the northern land.
The Behula's Basar, a pillar of stone,
Where a tale of love and a legend is known.
The Govinda Bhita by the river's side,
Where the secrets of empires used to hide.
Through the broken bricks and the mossy way,
The ghosts of the merchants and monks still stray.
Terracotta pieces in the silent dust,
Surviving the ages, the rain, and the rust.
The Vasu Vihara where the scholars taught,
And the battles for wisdom were bravely fought.
A labyrinth of history, deep and vast,
A living bridge to our buried past.
The bells of the temple, the prayer of the saint,
In colors of history, vivid and faint.
Though the palaces fall and the kings depart,
The city remains in the nation's heart.