us

Fall of 98 -- our date with fate,
Bucherest -- “Little Paris of the East”
then, was honestly home to those who had least,
After documents were signed and safely stored,
up, into the Alps of Transylvania, now all aboard,
leaving the city crowds behind,
amid the sheep herders and farms, we did wind,
where too, coal and minerals were mined,
it was there, soot and poverty were readily sewn,
where orphans abounded, and made their home,
One, from a land of gypsy’s she does come,
Wild, with love for dance and song to hum,
She’s now my angel, and I love her so,
together our fate, now does go.