Nerve Block To Manipulate Shoulder

Gli agapanti
Non ci sono asfodeli, né viole, né giacinti:
come parlare ai morti?
I morti non sanno il linguaggio dei fiori:
per questo tacciono,
viaggiano e tacciono, patiscono
e tacciono
nel paese dei sogni, nel paese dei sogni.

Se mi metto a cantare, grido,
se grido
Agapanthus m'impongono's silence
raising a hand in blue baby
of Arabia or the palms of a goose in the air.

heavy and difficult. Not enough for me to live
first, because they do not speak, then why should I question the

dead if I want to move forward.
Another way is not there. How do I get to sleep


fellow
severed the strings of silver and the bottle is empty wind.
fill it, empty it, fill it, is empty.
me awake
as sea bream swimming
at access points of lightning.
The wind, flood, human bodies,
Agapanthus nailed as the arrows of fate on the thirsty land

shaken by spasms
seem to be loaded on a wagon
ancient rickety old paved roads and routes, the
Agapanthus, daffodils Negro:
how to learn this religion?

The first thing God made is love then comes the blood

and thirst of blood
that the seed of the body as a salt
prods.
The first thing God made is a long road and the house waiting


sky with smoke with a dog aged waiting,
to die back.
But you have the dead the way I teach.
These Agapanthus
that keep them silent as the bottom of the sea or water in the glass.
And the comrades remain in the palace of Circe
(Elpènore dear. Elpènore, my poor fool!)
or - do not see them? ("Help!") -
above the black crest of Psara.

Ghiorghios Seferis (1900-1971). In 1942, consul in London, after the military defeat of Greece in World War II, follows the greek government in exile in South Africa. The personal odyssey of Seferis coincides with that of his people. The last line alludes to the defeat of the Greek patriots Psara the Ottoman Empire in 1824. The Agapanthus, exotic flowers originating in southern Africa, having regard to the land of exile for him to become a symbol of the violence of war, but also a world of hostile and indifferent to the pain of the poet and those who suffer for freedom and for justice. Also this would question the dead as Ulysses.

us? Who shall question for us to find a home, if the living do not speak, though we lost the way home?