The Dwarfs Who Inherited Thrones

How a Generation of Hollow Men Came to Rule a Majestic World

Jun 23, 2025

They no longer lead. They manage. They calculate. They survive.

This is not the age of kings, nor prophets, nor visionaries—this is the era of dwarfs, clutching thrones they do not deserve.

1) A World Shrinking

There was a time when kings spoke like poets, and their enemies wrote epics about them. Now, our leaders speak in press releases and fear hashtags more than gods.
The world has not ended—but something has.
It is not democracy that killed greatness. Nor is it war, nor modernity, nor even the internet. It is the erosion of vision. The rise of the manager over the prophet. The victory of calculation over fire.
We are ruled not by tyrants, but by dwarfs who inherited thrones—men with titles too heavy for their necks and histories too vast for their minds. They sign treaties with trembling hands. They speak of peace but fear silence.
Trump struts like Caesar in a casino suit. Macron rehearses revolution while begging bankers to like him. Sisi rules Egypt like a museum curator terrified of broken glass.
Not one of them dreams out loud.
Not one risks poetry.
Not one dares to rise higher than self-preservation.
And so we live in a shrunken world. A world where no one is coming to save us—but also, no one is worthy of being followed.

2) The Hollow Men of Today

They inherited palaces but walk like tenants.
They govern like interns—scared, scripted, replaceable.
Their crowns are not golden. They are made of algorithms, PR consultants, and security walls.

Let’s call them by name.

Donald Trump rose to power on the back of nostalgia and grievance—a showman, not a statesman. He spoke not to lead but to entertain, to divide, to echo the void inside his voters. He did not seek to uplift America; he sought to turn it into a mirror of himself: angry, insecure, obsessed with size.

Emmanuel Macron, once hailed as Jupiter reborn, now drifts between contradictions. His revolution is sterile. His elegance, robotic. A manager of decline, wrapped in rhetoric that once held hope. But his France burns, and he—like Nero—plays music written by economists.

Mohammed bin Salman of Saudi Arabia wears the robe of reform but holds a sword beneath it. A prince of paradox: cinemas and assassinations, Vision 2030 and vanished journalists. He speaks of modernity, but in his eyes flickers the ancient fear of losing control.

Abdel Fattah El-Sisi is a monument of mediocrity carved in military stone. He claims to protect Egypt from chaos, but in truth, he governs a silence so thick it chokes even the Nile. No vision. No dream. Just endless survival.

And the list goes on:
Putin, a ghost of empire.
Netanyahu, trapped in a mirror of his own myth.
Xi Jinping, a bureaucratic deity draped in the quiet terror of obedience.

They are not evil in the mythic sense.
They are worse: uninspired.

3) A Civilization Without Giants

From Titans to Technocrats

Once, thrones were carved for men who carried the weight of myth.
Now, they are optimized for men who fear controversy.

The world didn’t just wake up and find itself ruled by dwarfs.
We built ladders so small, only the petty could climb them.

We replaced charisma with caution.
Wisdom with metrics.
Destiny with polling data.

Democracy—our proud invention—slowly devoured the very thing it needed most: courage.
The crowd demanded safety. Simplicity. A steady paycheck and a scandal every Tuesday to feel alive.

We killed prophecy with algorithms.
We trained a generation of leaders to chase engagement instead of meaning.

In this world, the brave get cancelled,
The visionary gets mocked,
And the ones who dare to speak without a teleprompter
Are either crucified…
Or turned into memes.

4) The Plastic Crown Parade

The Rituals of Weak Men in Expensive Suits

They sit behind marble desks and speak in grand halls,
but you can hear it in their voices—
the hollow echo of men who do not believe their own words.

They hold titles older than empires.
"President." "Prime Minister." "Crown Prince."
But these words are now no heavier than hashtags.

What is a ruler today, if not a mascot for power they do not possess?

Look closely:
They sign decrees written by advisors.
They smile with teeth whitened by PR firms.
They attend summits where nothing is risked, and nothing is changed.
They bow—not to gods, nor to people—but to markets, algorithms, and military contractors.

Symbols Without Soul

They wrap themselves in flags.
They pose for photos at holy sites.
They speak of heritage while selling it to investors.

A king once held a sword and swore to protect the land.
Today, a "leader" holds a spreadsheet and promises quarterly growth.

They fear silence because it might remind us that they have no music.
No mythology. No vision. No storm in their blood.

They do not write history.
They rehearse it.

And when they go to war, they do not lead—it is drones, not horses.
It is press conferences, not battle cries.
It is cowardice with a medal pinned on its chest.

5) The Puppeteers and the Puppets

Who Really Rules the Hollow Men?

A man stands on the stage. He smiles. He speaks.
But behind the curtain—hands move. Contracts breathe. Eyes watch.
The man is not a leader.
He is the screen. The real power sits in the dark with the remote control.*

Modern rulers are not sovereigns.
They are mascots of machines too large to name.

Who rules them?

The financiers who decide what policies get funded, what nations get loans, what dreams get starved.

The arms dealers—not citizens of any nation, only citizens of war. Every drone launched rings as currency in their vaults.

The data gods, who write the algorithms that shape elections, define truth, and erase resistance before it forms.

The intelligence shadows, who leak, blackmail, disappear, and arrange. Presidents fear them. Ministers obey them.

And beneath them?

The cowards in suits, managing populations like spreadsheets, smiling as they sign their nation’s dignity away with every trade deal and weapons contract.

Manufactured Consent, Custom-Made Myths

We are told we chose them.
But our ballots were sculpted by lobbyists, filtered through media empires, wrapped in fear, and served with a side of lesser evil.

The puppeteers do not need to be seen.
They only need us to believe that the puppet can dance.

They let the clown speak at the podium.
They let the tyrant roar on television.
They let us scream online—
so long as we never act offline.

But Here Is What They Fear

They fear not bombs or protests.
They fear not satire or exposés.

They fear the moment we stop believing in the stage.

They fear when we ask not "Who won the election?"
but "Who designed the script?"

They fear the one who does not clap,
who does not kneel,
who no longer plays the game.

6) The Longing for Majesty

What the Soul Still Craves in an Age of Cowards

Why do we still look upward,
even when the sky rains nothing but ash?
Why do we still dream of kings, prophets, giants—
when every crown today feels plastic, every ruler a fraud?*

Because the hunger for majesty was never political.
It was spiritual.

We do not yearn for a leader who balances budgets.
We crave one who balances the soul of a nation.
One who suffers with us, burns for us, and dares to say something holy.

The Myth Lives On, Beneath the Ruins

In every country, even now—there are whispers.

A young girl in Iran who dreams of becoming a president without shame.
A poet in Egypt who writes like Nasser, but bleeds like Khalil Gibran.
A Jewish student in Tel Aviv who still believes peace is not delusion.
A Black boy in Chicago who reads Baldwin and dares to believe.
A queer Arab in exile who speaks with the voice of prophets,
even while banned from pulpits and platforms.

These are not politicians.
They are fire-keepers.
They are what comes after the age of dwarfs.

We do not need more men in suits.
We need people with burdened eyes and dangerous love.
People who have suffered deeply, and therefore cannot be corrupted easily.

A Sacred Rebellion

Majesty is not coming back in red carpets or royal blood.
It will come back in whispers.
In torn pages.
In footsteps on protest streets.
In voices that sound like your own.

It will not be televised.
It will be written on the skin of those who refuse to bow.
It will speak a new language—not of parties or policies,
but of meaning.