Some "inspired" considerations on the Tricolor


They wanted us to believe that I didn't exist, they filled our minds with disparaging statements about your ephemeral origins, they did all kinds of filth to muddy you and denigrate you, but you're still here, battered and a little faded, torn and sometimes humiliated, but always here, ready to wave high, Italian National Flag.

You are the emblem of the Fatherland, you are a tear of a soldier, you are a banner of unity, under You have served and millions of men have died, millions of women have suffered and blasphemed on you, but you are always there in the clear sky Our Earth. 

Born to symbolize a minority and an ideal today you are the banner of a nation, you are not burned because you think You are not the symbol of nothing but a gigantic machine of bureaucracy, but it is not. 

To you bow medals and altars, thrones and crowned heads, in your name and for your defense so many have shed the blood of their heart.

You are the symbol of a country that many fear to name, not out of terror, but out of shame, a shame dictated by the ignorance and the loss of a consummation betrayed and never admitted.

You waved for the sovereigns and dictators, perhaps because of this they denied you without remembering that they too bent over to you. You waved for the rebirth of our Nation, but with indifference they put you in front of two great powers making sure I was crushed.

When the world has then changed and the certainties have fallen you ended up in a forgetfulness of unrecognition that made you anonymous and hypocritical ready to wave for a kick to a ball, and yet you are always, faded but haughty, certain of the fact that under the your flaps still swear the discouraging politicians and servant soldiers, for your colors die young people full of youth and at your sight they still keep bending their heads. 

It is more than one hundred and fifty years that you represent us, red blood moisten the flap, the white whiteness of the alpine peaks at your center and on the green of the beautiful meadows of Italy support your garrire.

Andrea Pastore (archive photo: Italian Military Cemetery in Munich)