In the evening,
When no one expects you to roam
Through the corridors of a hotel,
You hear the music of
A piano
And the sound of a voice –
A trembling alto, musical and brave –
Echoing through the rooms.
And yet now it is quiet,
But yesterday it was loud
And beautifully strange and eerie.
A chorus of voices erupts through the night,
And I chanced to stumble upon
A large gathering of…
Where they people? Or something else?
They dressed like people,
And spoke and laughed
And seemed to dance like people.
But I tried to speak to them
And all they did was float away,
Laughing about jokes long told
And forgotten.
And the next morning I found at last
An answer.
“In the 1920,” said the bell boy
As he pointed out a photo
Hanging on the wall, of a party
Dated 1924…
“In the 1920s, disaster struck,
When a fire took the life of about
A hundred people
Who were celebrating something –
Don’t ask me what! –
And every year on that day
They arrive
Alive and well, I guess,
And party as if they never died…
As if the party never ends.”
And does it not?
They do not leave this Earth,
Move on,
Go on to life everlasting.
They are forever trapped in a party.
And what better way to die
Than to live as if you never did?

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