| Unexpected… suddenly…as if from nowhere they appear,
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| the monks are wearing fire-coloured gowns,
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| their faces, friendly but determined, are hidden behind lacquered masks,
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| painted black&white, they’re having the shape of over-dimensional skulls.
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| Quickly and nimbly they are moving forward, hopping dextrously,
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| throwing their legs like ageless jesters… so high up into the air.
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| Each of them is armed with a short, an even piece of wood,
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| remarkably resembling… ancient worn-out washing-boards.
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| Polished to strike ritually…-this is the DAY OF THE remaining DEAD.
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| On this day we celebrate the expulsion, or rebuke,
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| of the spirits wich have unintendedly been dragged along.
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| Some of these ghosts have been forgotten, some have simply been ignored,
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| these remnants with a gowing hunger… must be exorcised, must be removed.
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| This ritual alway commences without warning, suddenly,
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| therefore it cannot be assigned to a certain date of time.
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| It rather tends to inevitably follow a chain of events,
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| a special spiritual feature inherent in each and everyone of them.
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| Put of the sphere of influence… of the sphere of the days to be
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| the monks are approaching, spinning on their own axis as they dance and sing
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| and hitting every person present dard between the shoulder-blades
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| as everyone here is dragging fidget, invisible…"appendages".
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| As if by change, not expressly invited, we’ve assembled here today
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| vehemently we are being hit… and driven through the western gates,
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| out of the monastery in the direction of the setting sun
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| a necessary purifying ceremony for the (fragile) days to come… |