A HORSE WITHOUT A RIDER

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.
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.