Pasolini says Ah,
here in fragments of "Vittoria"
soul,
with your delicate anger!
You do not recognize a soul other than
this one
which has all the prose of the clever man,
of the revolutionary devoted to
the honest common man
(..)
you do not recognize the heart
that becomes slave to its enemy,
and goes
where the enemy goes,
led by a history
that is the history of both, and
makes them, deep down,perversely,
brothers;
you do not recognize the fears
of a consciousness that, by
struggling with the world,shares
the rules of the struggle
over the centuries, as through
a pessimism into which hopes
drown to become more virile.
Joyous with a joy that knows
no hidden agenda,
this army
-blind in the blind sunlight-of
dead young men comes
and waits.
If their father, their leader,
absorbed in a mysterious debate
with Power and bound
by its dialectics,
which history renews ceaselessly
-if he abandons them,
in the white mountains,
on the serene plains,
little by little
in the barbaric breasts of the sons,
hate becomes love of hate,
burning only in them, the few,
the chosen.
Ah, Desperation that knows no laws!
Ah, Anarchy, free love of Holiness,
with your valiant songs!
You do not recognize a soul other than
this one
which has all the prose of the clever man,
of the revolutionary devoted to
the honest common man
(..)
you do not recognize the heart
that becomes slave to its enemy,
and goes
where the enemy goes,
led by a history
that is the history of both, and
makes them, deep down,perversely,
brothers;
you do not recognize the fears
of a consciousness that, by
struggling with the world,shares
the rules of the struggle
over the centuries, as through
a pessimism into which hopes
drown to become more virile.
Joyous with a joy that knows
no hidden agenda,
this army
-blind in the blind sunlight-of
dead young men comes
and waits.
If their father, their leader,
absorbed in a mysterious debate
with Power and bound
by its dialectics,
which history renews ceaselessly
-if he abandons them,
in the white mountains,
on the serene plains,
little by little
in the barbaric breasts of the sons,
hate becomes love of hate,
burning only in them, the few,
the chosen.
Ah, Desperation that knows no laws!
Ah, Anarchy, free love of Holiness,
with your valiant songs!
3 comments:
HI! I'm an italian... I'm lookin' for new friends... this is my visiting card.
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To my Nation.
Not Arabian people, not Balkan people, not ancient people
but living nation, but European nation:
and what are you? land of infants, starving, corrupted,
rulers employed by agrarians, mossback prefects,
small lawyers smeared with grease and dirty feet,
liberal executives carrions as bigot uncles,
a barrack, a seminary, a public beach, a whorehouse!
Millions of petit bourgeoises as millions of swines
to graze impelling forward under unharmed palaces,
among colonial houses by the time scraped as churches.
Just because you didn't existed, now you don't exist,
just because you were conscious, now you are unconscious.
And only because you are catholic, you cannot think
that your evil is entirely evil: every evil's cause.
Subside in this beautiful sea of yours, clear the world.
P.P Pasolini
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you need to update your blog more often
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