there is a land where in the countryside
a crumbling church an old name is your guide
armenian garden jew’s lane magyar square
armenian people used to live down there
the jews’ and szeklers’ tales are still retold
about these local residents of old

there is a land where only grasses know
the names of those who slumber down below
the crosses have decayed without a trace
for jewish ashes try another place
and who can read today the mossy chipped
embossments of the old armenian script

there is a land its tombs are marble-paved
with every corner gracefully engraved
into the figure of a clover leaf
carved centuries ago in low relief
they gather dewdrops and soak up the rains
those marble-topped armenian remains

there is a land where when the drought is hard
the birds fly to the cemetery yard
to land on gravestones rank with moss and dock
and quench their thirst upon a marble block
then soaring once again wings widely spread
they sing a grateful chorus for the dead