To the inhabitant of New York, Paris, or London death is a word that is never uttered because it burns the lips. The Mexican, on the other hand, frequents it, mocks it, caresses it, sleeps with it, entertains it, it is one of his favourite playthings and his most enduring love. It is true that in his attitude there is perhaps the same fear that others also have, but at least he does not hide this fear nor does he hide death; he contemplates her face to face with impatience, with contempt, with irony: 'If they're going to kill me tomorrow, let them kill me for once and for all'.'; Octavio Paz on The Labyrinth of Solitude (1959)
Now, being near to the day of the death, and the same time the celtic new year, to different practices and rituals, that were united, ironically by the one Church that tried to eliminate them because of being pagan traditions, walk together this date.
This small video shows this, in a small wink.