So perhaps they weren't perfection;
Certainly they were flawed;
Certainly they expected folk
To be servile, over-awed.
But take a look at the faces!
See the innocence and charm!
See the air of regal dignity
And bland complacent charm!
Are we to blame for the attitudes
Instilled in us at birth?
These people grew up as 'special',
Inheriting the earth.
Was it their fault they were 'silly',
Not noticing times had changed?
Was it their fault that they didn't see
Their subjects were estranged?
The daughters are so lovely!
The sick son looks so sweet!
The parents had a marriage
That was happy and complete!
They didn't deserve Yekaterinberg,
Their dreadful place of slaughter;
They didn't deserve the massacre....
Each parent, every daughter!
Imagine the bullets raking
Their bodies, one by one!
Imagine the dreadful vision
When the carnage was all done!
It happened a long, long time ago!
But the vision still haunts my brain.
When I consider Russia,
I remember the ghastly stain.
"The executioners drew revolvers and the shooting began. Tsar Nicholas was the first to die; Yurovsky shot him multiple times in the head and chest. Anastasia, Tatiana, Olga, and Maria survived the first hail of bullets; the sisters were wearing over 1.3 kilograms of diamonds and precious gems sewn into their clothing, which provided some initial protection from the bullets and bayonets. They were stabbed with bayonets and then shot at close range in the head."
For a year and a day I will mourn him, the father of my child,
As the winds of grief blow round my heart, ever more chill and wild.
He was taken to live with the angels; he looks down on us from above!
Baby dear, kiss your own Papa, who gazes down with love.
I remember his face, so waxen, as he breathed his final breath
In life, my dear, he was lovely. He was lovely even in death.
They laid out my mourning costume, the thick black bombazine.
It breaks my heart to remember that he loved me best in green.
We'll stay fast in the house, my lovely, till our mourning days are done.
The shadowy house becomes us much more than the blazing sun.
I'll draw back the curtains one moment; you must kiss Papa on the face.
But to leave them open for longer would be a dreadful disgrace.
The clocks were all stopped at three, love, the time that the angels came;
To let them sound out the hours since then would bring this house great shame.
When a year and a day have passed, dear, I'll walk out in a dress of grey.
Am I really so terribly wicked to long for that distant day?
We'll visit the graveyard on Sunday; you'll wear your little black dress,
And passers-by will doff their hats to acknowledge our great distress.
Little children have to be taught, love, what a family death can mean.
I'm only just learning myself, you know,
And I am all of sixteen.