FACTORY OF VIOLENCE

There was no accident. It is an entire generation your failures have delivered to the flames. Beneath your crumpled suits, betrayals show their seams. You deconstructed without rebuilding, demolished all bearings, weakened respect, dissolved hierarchy — and now you mourn the ruins you yourselves designed. You fantasize France as a stage for amusement, halfway between historical folklore and reality TV. But there are no bulls here, no masquerade — the only deception is yours. The true puppets sit in your palaces, and the only clogs are your boots pressing on the necks of the defiant. You call this chaos? It is the purest expression of your failure, the mirror of a State you cracked with your own indifference. The weak did not merely surrender: they consented, assisted, took part. And now you expect the people to keep paying for your faults piled high like falsified communiqués. Look at yourselves. Nourished by the privileges of the Republic, incapable of shame, incapable of honor, you defile the memory of the dead while claiming to inherit a past you relentlessly betray. You are not authority — you are its parody. Society did not birth savages. It watched children grow in forsaken outskirts as you averted your eyes, and your repeated abdications sculpted the edges of chaos. Your cowardice is the true delinquent, your decisions, the crime’s tools, your speeches, projectiles; your silences, detonators.