Prawn balchão simmers,
Vindaloo stews away, Cafreal glimmers,
Bebinca rests, layers stack,
Cashew fenny poured, a toast to track.
Fish sizzles, kebabs on the grill,
Dresses, kaftans, hanging still.
Shells on tables, beads on strings,
The sound of laughter as daylight swings.
The sea calls out to those sitting blue,
Vendors shout, fisherwomen swing baskets of bamboo,
Markets burst, with life untamed,
Panjim’s lanes, forever named.
Houses of the Portuguese stand with grace,
Tiles cracked, but time won’t erase.
Bells ring from churches tinted with flakes of gold,
History whispers, stories told.
Susegado persists, the pace is lazy,
People rest, and past troubles are hazy.
Beer clinks, the sun sets low,
Goa moves, at the pace of a snail in snow.
In every footstep, in every word,
The Goan life is always heard.
No rush, no race, just space to be,
Goa lives and thrives with glee.
