Fiesta & Mock Orange

Here they come, stately, solemn, the bandsmen with their gilded epaulettes advancing, advancing in goose step. Their drums make the crowd vibrate.

Their queen follows them, trailing her eunuchs. Her painted doll’s face is beautiful and sorrowful. She sways a little on her golden float.

Each glass eye holds a glass tear. Solemnly, solemnly they march alongside her the penitents, dripping hot wax from their candle bouquets.

They are all in their finest, bright silks, dark suits, some in bare feet in spite of the dust, – varnished toenails, silver anklets.

Slowly, slowly they enter the temple the bandsmen, the marchers, the queen. She looks sadder then ever in her candle-lit palanquin

as they swing the censer, intone the ritual chant, behold the great ripping, the blood sacrifice.