I walked with questions in my shoes, crossing borders of belief. Each land greeted me with its “only truth,” a flawless jewel from the same dusty mine. Once, faith was rebellion, a torch raised against power. Now the powerful hold the torch themselves, and the people, blind with reverence, kneel as if fire itself were mercy. Chains shine brighter when you polish them with prayer. They kneel, they wash, they count, they chant until their voices fray. They trace words from sacred pages, circle beads through weary fingers, each path declaring itself the only road, yet all spinning in circles, guarding gates that open nowhere. I saw hungry mouths at the doors of temples lined with treasures, holy men blessing weapons before they struck, armies praying for triumph, each side certain the heavens sharpened their blades. When one life fell, the crowd sighed, fate. When one life rose, they cried, miracle. What irony! souls longing for freedom, yet weaving tighter bonds with every vow. Measuring diets, measuring garments, measuring syllables, mistaking cages for wings. Perhaps the upper being, if there is one, does not count bows or beads, does not bargain with crowns or altars. Perhaps the mirror is the only shrine, and the soul the only scripture, aching not for approval, but for joy. Still, the choirs roar, each certain the conductor smiles only at their tune. And I, the wandering listener, see the same truth sung differently: that freedom, once a fist, now bows so low it worships the dust.