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