In ancient folds where Carpathians rise,
Through fog-bound forests, under endless skies,
Romania wakes, a land so rare,
With rivers whispering secrets to the air.

The Danube flows, a liquid thread of grace,
Winding through valleys, slow and in place,
Binding borders, as old tales bloom,
From Dacian myths to medieval gloom.

In Transylvania’s shadowed, storied hills,
The castles stand, where silence fills,
The tales of Dracula's haunted keep,
A legacy dark, yet ever deep.

Golden fields of wheat and vine,
Stretch beneath a sun that shines,
On villages lost to the clutch of time,
Where church bells toll...