Hungarian Gypsies 1935

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

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

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2006 Alfred Charasz