The dirge, hypnotic, began after dawn. Gongs and drums, barely touched, to come together to give a rhythmic bass melody is always the same feel. They look like pansies. It rings the great gong and start again.
The first, solid, sunshine, a rare monsoon in these dark days, dispel the mist of the morning and with it rises the chorus of female voices. Voices without accents are colored in a single, sad, litany that goes from the house and walk through the alleys around.
The procession is made up in traffic, the rhythm of the gong sounded like a march. A young man, perhaps the favorite nephew, climbs quickly on the canopy, decorated with white and gold paper. This is the signal and the theory of women, wearing a precious tray gifts, moving in unison, just sway, bodies wrapped in a soft color palette of the sarong. In a few minutes are already gone. A heel counter, and pay the thunderous clatter of a mob of scooters and cars, impatience and boredom the result of melancholy.
When the sun is high, the music leaves your hands free to chase colorful tonal scales, rings and elaborate flower. E 'style Kebyar that sometimes jumps out of the otherwise monotonous singsong and silky bass. The orchestra gradually attracts the female chorus, this time is expressed by the sacred sounds from vocals.
sounds that form the backdrop to the whole day, accompanied by the thought that unfolds supported by notes of brocades, soft and fluffy.
There are no tears, no scenes of despair, let the intimacy of the rooms in the shade. Death is now, full of family ties and neighborhood, sublimated in age-old rituals and marked by music and singing.
A muffled way to go.
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