You enter the room as if it were a headline,
bold font, all caps,
a ticker tape of your own making gliding
behind your eyes.
Once, the republic spoke in columns and iambs,
measured clauses, slow debate;
now the sentence refreshes every second,
a feed, a scroll, a shout.
You mastered that music first:
the cut of the slogan,
the hook of the insult,
the rhythm that fits in the palm
of a stranger’s hand.
They call it populism, branding,
spectacle, reality,
but it feels more like a mirror factory—
each surface tilted
to catch your name
and send it back brighter,
louder,
again.
There is a crowd inside every camera.
Red hats bloom like small alarms.
History, half-remembered,
watches from the balcony
and takes notes in the dark.
You speak of greatness
the way architects speak of height,
as if altitude were innocence,
as if a tower could be a verdict
or a wall could cure a wound.
Still, the country moves through your shadow
like a long, divided caravan:
some with fists raised,
some with flags raised,
some with phones raised
to catch the proof
that they were here
when the story bent
toward you
again.
In another era,
poets might have praised or cursed a king;
now we annotate the algorithm
that chose which speech to show,
which silence to ignore,
and how your face appears
between a makeup tutorial
and a clip of someone dancing
in their kitchen at midnight.
What will remain is not only the marble
or the motorcade,
but the echo pattern you taught the language—
how a line can break like a nation,
how a nation can chant like a line,
how power learns to rhyme
with itself.
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