Hungarian Gypsies 1935

At the village end,
On a flowery field,
The gypsy wagons stand,
And on quiet, moonlit nights
Music drifts down from the camp,
Haunting notes from the gypsy band,
Melodies from a people apart,
Plaintive, sweet and melancholy,
They do break my heart.

They were burned in the ovens
Of Auschwitz one day,
But on quiet, moonlit nights,
I still hear my gypsies play.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz