Romania's Last Ball
Romania's Last Ball
We have become tenants in our own country like shadows without border or name,
Our flour yields nothing and the bread no longer rises from the flame,
Foreign interests grind us down like a worm inside the core of a ripe apple bright,
And the destiny of our people has been broken... and no one took up its fight.
The Phanariots lead us with hands of wax and with oaths that are easily swapped,
They change their faith like neckties and their forgotten promises are dropped,
Humbly we apologize that they have not tormented us enough in this short life,
And they teach betrayal to the young... with a sweet voice... and with a deaf and hollow knife.
We no longer have factories and we no longer have land and we no longer have a voice,
We speak our own language in another tongue and words are no longer our choice,
Only the beautiful shame of a people preparing itself for exile and for wandering,
And even the graves are packing up for the road... in this agony and squandering.
Mad poet what words do you still mutter about a people that will not yield,
When we have become beggars and servants on our own native field,
The living and the dead mixed together ready to emigrate at the break of day,
A de-Romanianized Romania... counting its children... who no longer want to stay.
The fatal bell is heard on the evening of the last ball and the final night,
Times of fury and of hailstorms are coming down on all our children's sight,
The high and mighty dance upon our ruins in their cold and festive wear,
And we watch as our country... is sold... and lost... and disappears into the air.
Safe travels people lost on a bet we never knew that we were making and giving,
Farewell mother country... farewell... a word we speak but cannot believe we are living,
Perhaps tomorrow there will be emptiness and all of us will leave with broken hearts to roam,
Romania... the last ball... and the orchestra... keeps playing... keeps playing... far from home.
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