The people readied themselves for the celebration, burgers, hot-dogs, refreshments, and beer, but ahead of their gleeful caravan was mankind’s lies and grime that the wind dropped until the unbearable stench was hard upon them. The grave spirits wept of the fading justice, tears tilted their red cheeks into the pungent air opening the fear-filled and stinking carriage, lowering the trappings across the doldrums. They stood, one next to the other, smiling in quiet optimism as the odor drifted through and crawled up their expectant noses making bed in the deep ruts left by the torrent of recent wars. The spirits had not meant to overstay their welcome. They had not meant to disillusion. (But the world’s people are so pliable, so tired, that even expected news rocks them back.) Monuments of sacrifice on that day split open like melons, exposing the battered hearts gasping at the shock of dishonor standing limbless before them. They never imagined the disease would find them
(The Weaver's Song)