Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Lethal Dose Of Temazepam,




is the cruelest month April.


begins This is how "The Burial of the Dead", the first part of this long poem by TS Eliot, arcane and vibrant, that somehow gives rise and meaning to contemporary poetry "The Waste Land."


April the cruelest month, which leaves the earth to break painfully as the womb that has given birth to engender life colored dress and the floor time, the cruelest month, which sheds light on the prairies dead for the mixing humus and decayed over winter clothing and give birth chart a new beginning. April, the month during which we care for the faithful zeal dogs will not interrupt the process with desperate love digging up the bodies of our dead.


Many people are surprised to learn the verse and the poem, perhaps prisoners that general jubilation that spring comes every year: March, storks, Easter. But it is true that rubbing light color and April shocked us both by its merry way as for the renewal of the absences. The dead man you're trying to dig up the dog in the Eliot poem, José María Palacio del Espino going to the cemetery to visit Leonor per parcel of Antonio Machado. The storks in their nests campurrianos crotoran Villaescusa and Reinosilla, who begin their flight in pursuit of branches to be consolidated their nests and frogs to eat, under the sunny blue sky and Leo and I are not going to share.


I was a few days ago my campurrianas highlands, invited by the Women's Association Nestares and hosted by the generous host that is Esperanza Ahumada. We talked about this and future on the commitment and the need for regeneration of public life, on the disasters of certain developments and on the beautiful Garden of Women in the vicinity of first-Ebro has given a new and friendly face to the people . We went to see the storks eat poultry eggs with jijas Casasola. We crossed the train first and then move in car accident on the back roads of this type filled valleys that breaks the winter soil and foliage dry and saturated with juicy buds and white flowers thorns of our peaceful solitude Romanesque country. Filling sense of memorable moments, every little step.


How can we be so indifferent to this April, so cruel, so beautiful, so dead and alive?

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