Italian I do not feel so long, when one evening in July of many, many years ago, Tardelli's scream was my cry, his joy was my joy. Then the flag
has slowly faded, discolored, like a piece of low quality, after some washing machine, in order to become a white sheet. That
tricolor not belong to me more, discouraged, by those who should represent me, and I is more, a long, long time.
Why should I feel proud to be Italian?
When those who govern us, only think to put on weight and not to make the interest of all, most of all the past, the weak, when those who represent us, forbids us to go to hell, as he welcomes
home.
What a fantastic story that's life.
my poor country,
mocked by the whole world.
Humiliated, when your children are forced to emigrate again to work.
Scarred, soil, in the dignity, the soul of those who survive every day, hoping for a better tomorrow, that is never better.
consumed by fires, looting planning, from mafia interests, the thirst for money and power.
my poor country, seeing their children killed by the new barbarians, torn to pieces by the two-legged beasts, murdered by the work, and do not work, killed by the desperation of daily life, which is increasingly bleak, one Justice not There is and never will be, also killed by ingorgidia and stupidity.
Goodnight Italy, rests serene in this midsummer night.
dream if you can a better future.
I dream, I do not anymore.
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