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Across the polders, through the towns,
In white and yellow, ups and downs,
The trams of Ghent, the buses bold,
A Flemish story, often told.

The Kusttram glides along the sea,
The longest tramline, wild and free,
From De Panne up to Knokke's shore,
A ribbon stitching coast to door.

"Volgende halte," soft and clear,
While schoolkids laugh and pensioners peer,
A monthly pass, a swift abonnement,
The rhythm of a working land.

Sometimes you wait, sometimes you race,
Sometimes the driver sets the pace,
But morning, noon, and evening shine—
You keep us moving, dear De Lijn.