Reposting a piece of fiction.  Hope you like it.

I always thought it was odd the way the pilgrims used to celebrate.  Once or twice a year they would arrive, winding through the valley along the banks of the little violet river, brightly costumed, banners waving amid cloudbursts of music.  Some even danced but no matter how much joy they tried to force into the emerald serenity of the ancient place they always fell silent before the gate.  The wind abandoned the banners.  The people lost all strength to dance.  Invariably they would fall to the ground, tossing dust upon their shaven heads.  They were people after all and people are no match for death.

After they had shattered themselves against the silk and paper gate of the Sanctuary, their pretense and piety deflated as the banners they would resort to the same ritual as all other pilgrims.  “Mhun Yon-Jaig!”…