I am publishing this crib (not as yet a translation) of Pasolini's Ballad which was written between 1961 and 1962 as it seems an additional text in which one can observe the importance of Russia in the work of Pasolini. This ballad doesn't seem to have been commented on by Francesca Tuscano in her book on 'Russia in the poetry of Pier Paolo Pasolini' and brings forth a number of reflections. There does seem to be translation of this ballad published in a City Lights anthology of translations of poems and other pieces by Pasolini's. Nonetheless here is a quick first crib of this important Pasolini poem.
Ballad of the mother of Stalin.
"My son, I who was innocent,
Gave you a love of guilt.
From a dove was born a fox,
He who comes at night and ravages
The livestock of the poor.
In those centuries in which we’ve been servants,
Innocence render parents
More children than their children: and their masters
Love them because they are so green.
The innocence of servants is not history!
My son, I who was meek,
Gave you a love of rancour.
From the little star was born the sun
Which burns the enemy lands
Of poor labouring folk.
Meekness in us servants is fear:
We look only for the respect
Of the boss, so that the first
Christian virtue in our nature
Is to allow ourselves be offended and oppressed.
My son, I was who humble
Gave you the love of power.
From the onion was born the honey
Which tempts fledgling sons
The last born to our wretchedness.
The humility of us servants is respect
For the will of the owner:
All that which seemed extraordinary to him
To he who possesses, alone, in his breast
A naked sub proletarian’s heart.
My son, I who was honest
Gave you a love for treachery.
From the cloud was born the wind
Which- invisible - assails the forest
Bringing death and unraveling.
Honesty, for servants, is a struggle
With oneself, so as not to die on the gallows.
An award for their good conduct
Is the blessing from a corrupt hand
In the celestial haze of the thurible.
My son, I who was life alone
Gave you a love for death.
That fate from pre-history
Upturning history fulfilled
Borne from the rage of insurgent masses.
Because the raw life of us slaves
Is a force which in itself is not dominant:
Source of unpredictable destinies
You sucked in from my breast,
The milk of heroisms and assassinations.
My son, how many women in the world
Still bear sons like you,
in Asia, in Europe, in Africa, wherever there is
a land of slaves, of bandits and thieves,
that dream of some thing deep inside themselves.
Mothers in which innocence is a guilt,
Meekness rancour, power humility,
honesty treachery: and whose life gives
a thirst for death: one needs to be conscious of this,
conscience or mercy are not enough."
