In the heart of the town where the legends reside,
Is a pot full of gold and a city's great pride.
The fires are lit and the milk starts to boil,
The fruit of the artisan's patient old toil.
Slowly it thickens to a creamy delight,
As the "Kheer" turns a shade of the softest of white.
Then come the droplets, the small pearls of dough,
To soak in the sweetness and start to o'erflow.
Not a giant "Rosogolla" or a heavy-set sweet,
But tiny, soft treasures for a heavenly treat.
Rasmalai is king, with a velvety grace,
Bringing a smile to a traveler's face.
The Matri Bhandar, where the crowds always wait,
To get just a taste of what's served on the plate.
Each spoonful is magic, each bite is a dream,
Bathed in the richness of thickened-up cream.
From the first silver drop to the last lick of gold,
It's a story of flavor that never grows old.
A souvenir carried to homes far away,
The taste of Cumilla in a sweet, milky spray.
It melts on the tongue like a cloud in the sky,
A reason for living that money can buy.
The pride of the district, the joy of the land,
The masterpiece crafted by a Cumilla hand.