Dracula's Wanderers Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

She was a sorceress,
though not a soul
had known.

Her incantations
could be heard
by no one.
A Magyar
and heir of
Attila, the Hun.
Though fate,
not magic
had transplanted
her to the plains
and gorges
of Dracula.

Moldavia
and Mongolia,
a sprinkle of
the Kasakh,
amidst the Wanderers
from Asia,
the sour-faced
Greek merchants
and the Csabas,
took on the mountains
called Carpathians.

Oh, Dracula,
oh Transylvania,
give me
your Saxons
to re-unite
within the
Fatherland.
And let us
bring her back,
this sorceress,
to drive the Csangos
and the Vlachs
into the hills
to join
the Gypsies,
and then to rob
the Croats and
the Serbs.

And only then
can we resume
the life of Nomads,
of restlessness,
and liberty
and freedom
of the soul.