When gypsies played accordions
We turned into colliding winds
At corners of unpaved streets:
The cherries in the orchard turned red with envy
As summers grew into burning.
That was long ago and far from here.
It is quiet at the window and the sound
Of the street accordion starts a slow burning
In my face: I am trying to remember how
The turning of the hora and the sirba stopped:
Were we turned into pillars of salt frozen into dance,
Because we looked back at our countries from
The eyes of the planes we first flew?
Or did we simply tire of whirlwinds
As the aching bones do?
Bugan, Carmen. “Summer Dances.” The New Compass: A Critical Review 3 (June 2004) <http://www.thenewcompass.ca/jun2004/bugan.html>