It was the day before Halloween – a precursor to All Soul's Day, and Dia de los Muertos, when ancestors returned to hallowed grounds to visit family among the living.
But Samael had been in a stupored fervor all Sunday, locking me out:
I heard him reading a poem, over… and over
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
