Pier Paolo Pasolini


Mothers Ballad

(from: Poetry in the form of a rose)





I wonder what kind of mothers have you had. 


If they could see you now at work

in a world they don’t know,

taken in an endless circle

of experiences so different from theirs,

what look would they have in their eyes?


If they were there, while you, conformists and baroques,

are writing your article

and you give it to editors who are used

to all kind of compromise, would they recognise you?



Coward mothers, with an ancient fear on their face,

which (the fear) is like a disease

that warps features with paleness,

obfuscates them, distances them from the heart,

and lock them in the old moral rejection.



Coward mothers, poor them, troubled from the idea

that their children will know cowardness

to ask for a work place, to be realistic,

to not offend priviliged souls,

to protect themselves from any pity.



Lousy mothers, who have learnt

with a child-humility

only one bare meaning about us,

with souls in a damned world

wich doesn’t give pain nor joy.



Lousy mothers, who didn’t have

for you a single word of love,

if not a meanly mute, beasty love

and in this love they raised you,

harmless to the real call of your heart.



Servile mothers, used for centuries

to bow their heads without love.

to transmit to their fetus the ancient, shameful secret

of contenting yourselves  with the remains of the feast. 



Servile mothers, who taught you

how the servant can be happy

hating who is, like him, in chains,

how he can be content and safe

cheating and doing what he doesn’t say.



Fierce mothers, focused on defending

the little that bourgeoises own,

the normality and the salary,

with the rage of the ones who take their revenge

or the ones who are under an absurd attack.



Fierce mothers who said you:

“Survive! Think about yourself!

Don’t have any pity or respect

for anybody, harbor in your chest

your vulture’s integrity!”



There they are, your coward, lousy, servile,

fierce, poor mothers!

They are not ashamed from the knowledge of you

being arrogant in your hate.

This is just a tears’ valley.



The world is yours in this way:

brothers in the opposite passions,

or opponent homelands,


that refuse being different and (refuse)


to answer to the savage pain of being humans.



Pier Paolo Pasolini – Mothers Ballad

(from: Poetry in the form of a rose)





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