And tonight is the long night. The cold freezes even the rays of sunlight flying through the iron-plated pines. The knees of the old men cease before the ages of labor. The endless lines of sad statues begin to weep red tears as the sun sets. Through the knife-like winter wind is a lone boy. In his left hand, a box of matches. In the other, three liters of kerosene. The salt and kerosene float above the puddles of snow and tears. The brass drums of the dokkaebis thunder over in the distance. Before the snow bites off the dokkaebis’ feet, the path must be cleared.

Once the road catches fire, the two-hundred statues begin to melt like ores of iron. The tears are no longer like blood, but rather burning magma. The earth and the mountains dance in the heat of the march, the brass drums and the drunken songs of the dokkaebis driving away demons of misfortune and hate from the village of Hari. And tonight is the winter solstice in the village of Hari, when the dokkaebis eat away the sins of the village.