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It was the first time Lithuania had ever danced freely among Poland’s people.

She surprised herself at how easily she adapted to what seemed like impossible choreography and flourish: the colors of the dancers’ costumes around her were a blur of reds and yellows and blues; the painted faces of the other Polish women were smiling and laughing, and Lithuania found herself laughing along with them.

Poland was a fantastic dance partner. Her costume was all green skirts and embroidered roses on her bodice and blouse. An arrangement of dazzlingly colored flowers held and strung together with spilling ribbons crowned her head, and Lithuania paid close attention to how they swayed and curled with her step when it came time to spin. The flash of Poland’s skirt floating around her ankles and the light clattering of her red-beaded necklace brought Lithuania back into step each and every time.

The mid-day sun caught the shine of Poland’s flaxen hair and painted her eyes with a brilliant glow. Lithuania was absolutely smitten, and her heart skipped a beat whenever she smiled her way. She had forgotten to count the triple meter of the dance – she had even forgotten to be surprised that, in spite of it, she was still keeping up.

And now Poland was singing, loud and boisterous, with the rest of the dancers:

“Szła dzieweczka do laseczka do zielonego,
do zielonego, do zielonego…
Napotkała myśliweczka, bardzo szwarnego,
bardzo szwarnego, bardzo szwarnego…”

Lithuania had heard this song before – Poland would sing it to herself sometimes as she tended to the livestock in the stables. She was amazed that Poland was singing it directly to her now, and she provided the call-and-response without a second thought.

They continued to twirl in the pulse of the dance, their faces flushed from the drink, the energy of their people – joined and prosperous – and the newborn heat of the season.

Finally, Poland stopped among the blur of the dancers. “Come with me,” she laughed, and she excitedly led Lithuania away from the festivities to the edges of the forest. They could still hear the music and the singing, and the two of them stumbled beneath the shade of a great oak tree. The two sat there, knees sprawled on the grass, laughing and out of breath.

Poland boldly reached up and took Lithuania’s cheek into her hand. Lithuania felt herself growing bold when she saw the gleam in her partner’s eyes. Poland continued to sing along – now only to her:

“Myśliweczku, kochaneczku, bardzom ci rada, 
bardzom ci rada, bardzom ci rada…”

Lithuania laughed through the heat that prickled at the apples of her cheeks. She had never been so in love before.

“And you would give me bread with butter, my dear girl?” She asked theatrically, continuing the story of the folk song. She gently took Poland’s hand from her face and held it in her own. They laced their fingers together.

Poland smiled shyly, her laughter bubbly and infectious. “Bread and butter I do not have, my dear hunter,” she replied in the same tone of voice, “but if you would prefer… I would give you something sweeter…”

Lithuania did not need to be told to take the lead. Their shared laughter was soft and growing softer as her hand cupped Poland’s cheek, drawing her closer as she leaned forward to close the distance between them.

Gdzie jest ta ulica, gdzie jest ten dom,
Gdzie jest ta dziewczyna co kocham ją?

Her lips were warm, soft – the taste of the honey mead still lingered there. The scent of the forest and the scent of Poland’s breath filled Lithuania’s heart and left her trembling. They abandoned each other’s hands and clung to each other’s arms, neither of them willing to stop.

When they did part for breath, their eyes fluttered open reluctantly, lost in the haze of summer love. They pressed their foreheads together and sighed contentedly as their people continued to dance and sing in the distance:

"Znalazłem ulicę, znalazłem dom, 
Znalazłem dziewczynę co kocham ją…”