In the dusty heart where the old city screams,
Stands a fortress of brick and of Mughal dreams.
The Lalbagh Kella, in its crimson attire,
Glowing soft in the sun like a dying fire.
Built by a Prince in the days of the past,
With a beauty and grace that was destined to last.
But the walls remain silent, the work left undone,
Under the gaze of the tropical sun.
The Pari Bibi's Tomb, with its marble and light,
A sanctuary calm in the middle of night.
Where the shadows of history whisper and tread,
Around the soft rest of the royal dead.
The three-domed mosque with its elegant face,
Holding the spirit of a long-vanished race.
While the Diwan-i-Aam stands sturdy and tall,
With the echoes of kings in the great, hollow hall.
The water channels that used to flow cold,
Are stories of grandeur that never grow old.
Though the fountains are dry and the banners are furled,
It remains a retreat from a fast-moving world.
Through the gate of the south, where the arches are high,
The monument reaches for the Dhaka sky.
A majestic remnant of a golden-hued day,
Where the glory of emperors has not faded away.