The Gitana… three syllables that ring like a party but carry proclamations and blame. Here she stands in government, broom in hand to sweep away others’ troubles, yet her pockets are already stuffed with broken promises and budget holes. Remember the tax cut? One hand extended to the people, the other hidden in public accounts: fewer revenues, fewer repaired schools, fewer nurses on the wards. And behold the empty corridors, while the echo of that “reduction” rebounds off hospitals running in the red. They spoke of aid for families: bamboo bonuses to grow in a drawer, each time a different bureaucracy: six months for a voucher, a year for installment plans, only to discover that allocated funds cover just one third of requests. Then there’s the Gitana and her grand “Southern Plan”: spectacular announcements in the square, ribbon‐cuttings in every province, but worksites stall, tenders expire, funds vanish into the unknown. One bus out of three skips its route, while stations remain empty shells. And Europe? “Unity is needed,” they proclaim—then turn their backs on Brussels, threaten vetoes, demand discounts and special treatment. The result: an isolation in tricolor sauce, a diplomatic clown show that leaves our businesses stranded and dumps new sanctions on families. Security? Border blocks, social‐media slogans, and meanwhile an avalanche of emergency laws clogs courts and ministries. Seeking a residency permit or family reunification? Prepare for months of paperwork, as real crime slips through the gaps. And the youth? Promises of start‐ups, incubators, easy work… but the Gitana delivers plastic contracts, vacant internships, vanished guarantees. Talent flees abroad, luggage in hand, resumes in tow— no openings or real incentives remain here. Recall the great tax reform? Brackets revised, rates caressed, pensions advanced… then the deficit soars, pensions stay frozen, and part‐time becomes full debt. Environmental protection? Tricolor flags planted in every park, then free rein for drills and concrete, mega‐projects by decree. Coasts stripped bare, rivers clogged— the “green” mirage another shiny lure. Finally, communication: live streams to make us feel heard, while behind palace doors they decide on cuts, appointments, pardons. A squawky voice crying “transparency!” then heard only in conference calls—thousands of likes, yet no budget documents revealed. And yet, under the Californian moon of the stories, you glimpse weary faces and worn‐out alibis. The Gitana, mirror of an Italy seeking answers, finding each morning a new “save‐disaster decree.” So, citizens, shall we applaud? No. Let’s whistle: long, sharp, to break the silence of the palaces. Let’s demand accountability for missteps, broken promises, half‐baked laws. True power lies not in a media stunt, but in the strong voice of those no longer satisfied with verbal transformations. Good night, Gitana… tomorrow we want to wake up in an Italy breathing freely once more.