These are the days of ablutions.
The water is drawn, the beer poured in, tracing patterns of color in the tub. (The tub is not large enough for this, but one makes do with what one has.)
The beer bath is for curing the evil eye, they say, and the echoes of bad will and jealousy and ill intent. Whatever might have accumulated in bits over the year can stay with the old year, and here in the between times, it is washed away.
Under the water, with closed eyes, it is dark, and in the blackness the seeds take root, they sprout, they brighten, they fade. Here in the Hall of Doors, life and death blend into each other, until here is the grain, here is the beer, here are the drowning waters.
Dua Wesir, fair of face.