For the Cameras, Not the Table
They arrive earlythe youthbright shirts, louder laughter,summoned not by voiceBut by optics. They fill the frame.They raise the chants.They become the evidenceof a future that is never invited inside. For the cameras,They are everything. But when the doors closeheavy, polished, inheritedThe room rearranges itselfback to its original owners. There,in the quiet arithmetic of power,grey hair…