Après la mort d’un aigle royal, la justice ordonne l’arrêt d’un parc éolien dans l’Hérault

Oh, how lovely—it looks like progress, doesn’t it? A noble cause, wrapped in green PR, all smiles and sustainability posters. But let’s pause and ask: will the grotesque subsidies—pumped into these sacred wind temples like blood into a vampire—be bled dry too? Or are we just docking the operator a token fine while the real architects of this slow ecological crime sip wine in their eco-villas, fortunes intact, built off a lie we’ve fed for decades? When I was a kid in the Seventies, summer meant ducking into shade not for comfort, but to escape being devoured by a symphony of buzzing life. The air pulsed with insects, birds shrieked, life happened. Now? Silence. Nothing to bother you while you tan under your giant spinning saint of virtue signaling. An eagle falls, and people gasp. Billions of insects vanish—and no one blinks. But sure, tell me again how this is all part of saving the planet. 

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