I look at them, these men, educated
to my other life: fruits
of a story so different, and found, almost
brothers here, the latter form
historic Rome. I look at them: in all
is like the air of a herdsman who sleep
armed with a knife in their vital juices
, is stretched a tenebrore intense
jaundice of the papal Belli,
not purple, but off peperino ,
bilious brick. The linen, down, dirty and
end, the eye, the irony
transpires that her wet, red, burning
indecent. The night exposes them
almost hermitages, in reserves
made of alleys, walls, windows and doorways
lost in silence.
is not the first of their passions
the desire for wealth:
sordid as their members do not wash,
hidden, and together they discovered
devoid of all sense of shame: shameless
as is the falcon flutters
Chiotti anticipating the bite , or the wolf, or the spider;
they crave money as gypsies,
mercenaries, whores: if you do not complain
n'hanno, use flattery to get
abject, they glory
Plautus if they have filled the pockets. If they work
work of racketeers butchers,
feral polishers, reversed committed
incarogniti tram drivers, physically walking,
laborers as good as dogs - who have also done
an air of thieves
too much mischief in those ancestral veins ...
I came from the wombs of their mothers to find themselves in
sidewalks or lawns
prehistoric and recorded in a register
that every story they want to ignore ...
Their desire for wealth is thus predatory, aristocratic.
similar to mine. Everyone thinks to himself, anxious to win the bet
,
to say: "There," with a sneer of re ...
Our hope is equally obsessed:
aesthetic, in me, in these anarchic.
the underclass and it refined
the same hierarchy of feelings, both outside of history, in a
world that has no other passages that
toward sex and the heart,
depth in other ways.
Where joy is joy, pain, pain.
(Pier Paolo Pasolini )
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