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 in gentle chime.

The painted monasteries, quiet and bold,
In vivid frescoes, their stories told,
On walls untouched by rushing years,
Defying loss, erasing fears.

Bucharest hums in vibrant dance,
Its cobblestones hold history’s glance,
Old meets new in a proud parade,
Of bustling streets and sunlight’s fade.

Maramureș, where customs thrive,
In wooden churches, spirits alive,
Where hands carve art from ancient lore,
And fires burn on earthen floor.

The people rise with hearts of steel,
Through shadows cast by hardship's wheel,
In songs that echo through the night,
They hold the flame of quiet might.

Romania, land of depth and grace,
Of legends born from time and place,
A tapestry of rich and rare,
Bound by nature's watchful care.

From mountain peak to valley low,
In every breath, its spirit grows,
A country carved from myth and stone—
In every heart, a homeland known.


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