Day Of The Dead

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 dexterously
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 growing hunger...must be exorcised, must be removed.

This ritual always 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.