As my ritualistic family gathering
organized family planning rituals for
predicting the contents of future dinners,

a dream dawned where
they were all sitting around an oval table
crying because He had an intestinal disease,
thus it would be His last time joining them.

He put his hand on the table
and casually beat it with a hammer
weilded by His other hand,
and between desperate glances
between His bleeding hand
and their crying faces
a tear slid down His face.

Slowly a grim reaper approached the table and uttered:
"Ask yourselves- since when has everything not been a dance?
This was the moment of your death."