A person comes to Transylvania.

Let's call him Hans-Jürgen.

He looks around.

He feels stupid.

What, all of that was here?

With German colors in their banner.

If he knew more, he could see,

As they both stand before him:

Brukenthal, with him the German –

So clever, so loyal, and so German too.

He looks at the Romanians.

He then realizes there are a lot of them.

That never hurts him at all,

Because he comes from the Spree River.

Not from the Zibin, nor from the Alt.

The past leaves him rather cold.

He's listening here quite casually.

The very last German tongues.

But listen: Even if they are dialectal,

They sound so homely.

A distant homeland for Hans-Jürgen.

He feels Transylvania

Unlike the summer Saxons

Not as a return, more as growth.

Into a new, old world.

And he secretly wonders:

Would I have stayed here?

If I were perhaps buried,

Somewhere in the Donets Basin,

Where is there only terror again?

Is what I'm guessing real?

Will I do justice to all of this?

What ever was, what could ever be.

It is certainly on Earth

Here's a very special place:

Some things remained, but much is gone.

One looks forward and back.

And finds a piece everywhere,

That would probably be worth preserving.

Or is it just a nuisance?

It depends on who you ask.

Hans-Jürgen does this undaunted,

That's how he came to Transylvania.

Sanatate, Glück, Hans-Jürgen!