Hungarian Dance 4th November 1956
Her fingertips brush the tassels of the lampshade.
She holds a cinquième below the dulling light.
A mournful piccolo wails alongside
her father’s gentle touch on the piano keys.
The clarinet resists the mood of the piccolo,
and Jolin runs into a pliè, face skyward.
The spinning force prevents intrusion
from invaders inside her home.
She leaps to the passion of the violins’ bows,
marking the extents of the room with her pointes.
Military brass heralds Soviet percussion,
en err ère, en avante, en err ère.
Like father, Andris played while she danced.
Softened notes caressed gentle toes on the boards.
Now he steps to the call of the drumbeat
Carried into the mouth of the cannon.