Like voodoo ghosts, dictators rise from graves unlocked despite good riddance.

Their magic is, like always, lies and hatred; on bitterness they feed and feast.

The revellers find soul through ecstasy: no more ‘their proper place’, no more the unfair justice of the fairly minded.

The music, dance and trance will go and go as long as night will not betray them, delectable delirium the only destination – the doll of the dictators full of pins.

The spell will break with morning light. The faithful pray that darkness stay forever!