Under the sky of revolutions, the architects of absolutes rose

Under the sky of revolutions, the architects of absolutes rose, cloaked in the pride of dogmas, their words bleeding on the edge of new chains, shouting freedom while forging other shining shackles, and the air smelled of paradox, each faction a sharp blade cutting its own throat, all in the name of continuous progress, but how many empires must suffocate under the weight of their beliefs? A circle of fire that consumes itself, preaching the destruction of the old world, stones fell, virtues disappeared, leaving only the threads of chaos, in their eyes, ideals were not mirrors, but sharp weapons, fragile when faced with harsh truths, they forgot that pure light also casts a shadow, radicalism blooms where doubt dies, but the roots rot unseen, any doctrine, absolute in its marrow, becomes a noose for those who question, the prophets screamed about justice at any cost, but without mercy, tyranny only changes its form, the ground trembled not from the weight of righteousness, but from ignored cracks, history is a wheel, oiled with blood, spinning under blind convictions, they danced blindfolded to the music of their own destruction, a question floated in the ash: what use is a kingdom of rubble when the architects are buried beneath it? In the end, they did not fall to enemies, nor to gods, nor to the passage of time, but to their own reflection, a thousand truths warring until nothing remained but silence and smoke rising from the ruins of a shattered dream.