My Uncle Bebe galloped out of Berlad between bullets and flames,
chased by dogs and Cossack whips.
In blood-swollen eyes he flew over the moon of the rugged Carpathian Mountains.
Gypsy music played In soulless mountains, he once called home.
He survived on stolen apples, raw sturgeon and cold mamaliga.
Unselfishness no longer existed.
When a Chamois mountain antelope spooked his horse,
he was flung to the ground and lay in perfect stillness.
Only his eyes moved.
A loser in the game of fate, he couldn’t win with a low score.