It is dark. The streets are dimly lit with torches. Here, the glow comes from the burning oil-filled snail shells that are attached with mud in rows along the wall. There’s a cold nip in the air and then you hear the drums, their slow cadence growing louder as the procession advances. Bearing candles, the Nazarenes slowly shuffle past, in rhythm to the drums. The Dance has begun.
“He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only dreamed of places now and the lions on the beach.” Ernest Hemingway