Last year I read the book [b:Mend the Living|29752993|Mend the Living|Maylis de Kerangal|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1459491836l/29752993._SY75_.jpg|30021099] which is translated from the French, and in it a character referred to a poem entitled Ballade of the Hanged Man. It was clear from the text that the poet is one who would be studied in French schools or universities, and my interest was piqued. I've read a number of translated French work - old classics and modern authors - but have never studied French literature so have huge gaps. Thus I searched out a book of Villon's poetry, read the introduction with much interest, and read the poems with not quite as much interest (I have to say that, with all honesty) because I'm not really a person who cares a lot for poetry.

I'm copying the poem here that led me to the book - it links nicely to thoughts I've been having recently on "schadenfreude" and how easy it seems to be for people to enjoy others' suffering. Villon has plenty in his poetry that mocks others, but he also sees the need for pity:

Ballade of the Hanged Man
Brothers, humans, who live on after us,
don't harden your hears and turn away,
for if you take pity on wretches like us,
the sooner will God have mercy on you.
You see us strung up here, five, six in a row;
as for our flesh, which we nourished too well,
it has fallen away, devoured or rotted,
and we, the bones, will soon be ash and dust.
Let no one mock at our pitiful state,
but pray to God that he absolve us all.

If we dare to call you brother, do not
disdain us, though the law saw fit to kill us
in the name of justice; for you know
not all are blessed alike with sense and reason.
Therefore go with quiet heart and intercede
for us with the Son of the Virgin Mary;
ask that his grace toward us may not run dry
and let him save us from the firestorms of hell.
We are dead; let no one harm us further,
but pray to God that he absolve us all.

The rain has soaked us through and washed us clean
and the sun has dried and blackened us.
Magpies and crows have cored out our eyes,
trimmed our beards and plucked our eyebrows.
We never get a moment to rest:
this way and that as the wind shifts direction,
it swings us at its whim continually,
more needled by birds than a darning thimble.
No, ours is a club you should not rush to join,
but pray to God that he absolve us all.

Jesus, our Prince, who reigns over us all,
let hell have no hold over us sinners,
let us owe it no debt or allegiance.
Fellow men, don't laugh at our fate,
but pray to God that he absolve us all.