Manual Ati Radeon R96

Mother's Day evening of poetry

One of the things that I care to write on this blog post is only my accomplishments, but today I will make an exception by publishing, in conjunction of their party, a poem by Pasolini on mothers:

Ballad of mothers

I wonder what mothers have had.

If you saw the work hours

in a world unknown to them,

taken on a tour ever made

of experience so different from them,

that would look in your eyes?

If they were there, as you type

your piece, conformist and baroque

or passed to editors broken

to any compromise, they would understand who you are?

Mothers cowards in the face with the fear

old, what an evil

deforms the lineaments in a whiteness

them blurred, move them away from the heart,

close them in the old moral rejection.

Mothers vile, poor, worried

that the children know the cowardice

to demand a place, to be practical,

not to offend sensitive souls,

to defend against all pity.

poor mothers who have learned

humbled by the girls of us,

one, meaning naked,

with souls in which the world is damned

not give sorrow or joy.

poor mothers, who have not had

for you never a word of love,

if not a love sordidly dumb

of the beast, and it grew v'hanno,

powerless to recall the real heart.

Mothers servile, accustomed for centuries

to bow his head without love,

to submit to their fetuses

the old, shameful secret

content of the remains of the feast.

Mothers of slaves, who have taught

as the servant can be happy

hating those who, like him, tied

as may be cheating on you, blessed

and secure, making what is not said.

Mothers fierce, intent on defending

the little, middle-class, possess,

normality and salary,

almost angrily to avenge those who

or is close to an absurd siege.

fierce Mothers, who have said

Survive! Think of you!

Never try piety or respect

for anyone, hatched in the chest

your integrity of vultures!

Here, cowardly, mediocre, servants,

fierce, your poor mother!

Having no shame in knowing how to

- in your hatred - even proud,

if this is not a vale of tears.

is how this world belongs to you:

made brothers in opposing passions,

or enemy homelands, the refusal deep

to be different: to respond

the savage pain of being men.