For today's (and tomorrow's) occasion I translated a Dutch poem written by Willem Wilmink, touching on Ffordean themes. I hope you appreciate it.

All souls'

Along a busy road may go
a former comrade you still know
or some old friend.
You realize then, as you greet:
It is impossible we meet,
for he is dead.

At first you feel a while surprised
by one who went so well disguised
as your dead mate.
No sooner you dismissed the case
or down there comes, at quick a pace,
another late.

Home from the morbid masquerade
you see the mirror in the shade,
great is your dread:
that man there, in the looking glass,
whose likeliness is unsurpassed,
wasn't he dead?

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I apologize for having sacrificed English grammar and idiom in order to maintain rhyme, rhythm, meter, and a distinct Lower Saxon undercurrent.
Specifically, "morbid masquerade" is a loose translation from the Dutch misnomer literally meaning "dead men's carnival", as "Day of the Dead" (i.e. Latin American style) didn't fit in.

Is it Dia de Los Muertos already? I should like to see it celebrated one day.