The Parade
Like Il Duce’s rise,
the crowds cheered first—
then knelt.
What we mistook for joy
was only surrender
wearing its Sunday shoes.
The uniforms are different now,
stitched with new sigils,
but the salute is the same:
a raised hand,
an open palm,
a silent oath
to nothing.
He did not take Rome with an army—
he took it
with a parade.
Brass bands and banners,
marching feet on cobblestone dreams,
and no one looked behind the curtain.
Il Duce didn’t need to overthrow the state.
He promised punctual trains—
and the nation,
tired of waiting,
followed.
We mistook the theater for leadership.
The pageantry was perfect.
The actors knew their lines.
By the time we recognized the play,
it had already been performed—
and history had taken its bow.
The flag is not theirs. It is ours. And if we don’t reclaim it now, we may never get the chance again.