I whispered in Paris, then roared in St. Petersburg, I topple crowns and shake the calm. I spin without moving, I burn without flame, I am feared by those who cling to old names.

A time traveler in a plastic shell, spinning memories caught in a magnetic spell, rewinds the past with a gentle whir, capturing frames without a blur.

Upon a field of mirrored lands, Two nations wait at mind’s commands. The throne is lost when rulers fall, Yet blood is never shed at all.

My little boy went first, but alas did not survive. I followed three days later, but there I also died. And scores of thousands cried. Who am I?

I have a face, but I do not have a nose. I am known for my riddles.