She was a sorceress, <br />though not a soul <br />had known. <br /> <br />Her incantations <br />could be heard <br />by no one. <br />A Magyar <br />and heir of <br />Attila, the Hun. <br />Though fate, <br />not magic <br />had transplanted <br />her to the plains <br />and gorges <br />of Dracula. <br /> <br />Moldavia <br />and Mongolia, <br />a sprinkle of <br />the Kasakh, <br />amidst the Wanderers <br />from Asia, <br />the sour-faced <br />Greek merchants <br />and the Csabas, <br />took on the mountains <br />called Carpathians. <br /> <br />Oh, Dracula, <br />oh Transylvania, <br />give me <br />your Saxons <br />to re-unite <br />within the <br />Fatherland. <br />And let us <br />bring her back, <br />this sorceress, <br />to drive the Csangos <br />and the Vlachs <br />into the hills <br />to join <br />the Gypsies, <br />and then to rob <br />the Croats and <br />the Serbs. <br /> <br />And only then <br />can we resume <br />the life of Nomads, <br />of restlessness, <br />and liberty <br />and freedom <br />of the soul.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dracula-s-wanderers/
