“When a Mask Meets a Mountain”
He shakes the hand with cameras in the room,
A smile practiced, polished for the bloom.
He speaks of freedom, peace, and sacred ties—
While shadows gather just behind his eyes.
Barzani nods. He’s heard it all before:
The soft white lies, the open-closing door.
He doesn’t flinch at scripted foreign grace—
He’s met this mask on many a borrowed face.
Macron, the voice of liberty and law,
Yet fuels the deals that keep the tyrants raw.
He calls them friends, then starves them in the night,
A dove by day, by dusk a satellite.
He is no Basque, no soul of mountain kin—
He wears their words but has no fire within.
He lifts the stateless, gently, with his words—
Then signs the pact that cuts away their world.
A champion framed in marble and finesse,
But truth is not impressed by how he’s dressed.
So raise your glass not to the hand that’s warm,
But to the soul that weathers every storm.
The mountain knows when thunderclouds pretend—
And watches silently, until the end.