IconElegies

Under the ice of the Neva I realized that I had come to you, God. This time forever and for good. I was Your God, but I was called a deceiver and a libertine, I was one of those, but I knew You, God. You me. Grigori Rasputin was not a lie, they couldn't even kill me. Oh Tsarevich, poor thing, dirty Rasputin will not save and heal you, I know, the Emperor will be destroyed. Poets note. Grigori Rasputin is a landmark in history.

I can't breathe. I begged them to stop. They didn't stop, not even when I called out for my mother. By then it was too late. I would never have guessed that I would become the face of change, the face of rebellion and centuries of oppression. And to others, I was just a junkie and a thief who deserved his fate. I was a human being, I had a name. The death of George Floyd at the hands of the police was followed by widespread protests.

My short life was crazy. One day, I delivered a challenge to a duel, and I got shot myself. The emperor's cousin shot me. He couldn't wait, I guess. And the madness didn't stop there. My death was to start a revolution. Even crazier, women rub my bronze penis in the cemetery,  thinking they're getting pregnant. Not me, of course. Anymore. Poet´s note. Victor Noir was a French journalist who is buried in the Pere-Lachaise cemetery.

I was real.  So many have pretended to be me. The lost daughter of the Tsar, even though  I was supposed to be born a son, an heir. But I died, like all the rest of us. Before I had to die, I blossomed for a short time. I still remember the shots, the death cries of my sisters, the end of the dynasty. I was not a foolish girl, I was a victim of my time, Grand Duchess Anastasia. A poet's note. There are many stories about Anastasia Romanova, but she was murdered in 1918 along with the rest of the Tsar's family.

A girl drowned in the Seine. She was lifted from the river with a happy smile on her face. Only sixteen years old, it was estimated. She survived. She was a death mask that adorned the apartments of dark artists. The most famous anonymous in the world, even after all these years. Why did she smile when she died? No one told us, because no one longed for happiness. Was death a joy for her? She remained the most famous unknown. Is that why she smiled? Was she unhappily in love? Had life never had time to begin, did she not let happiness come? She knew it.

My name is Andreas Lubitz. I woke up this morning, which I have decided will be my last. If I have enough courage, it must be enough. I was born into a life that should have been going well. I was not feeling well. I did not feel alive. I am a co-pilot. I want to fly. I cannot become a captain  if I tell you everything that I feel. What will I have left if I tell you. The cheap wings of Germany fly. We fly cheap. People are cheap. I am only interested in flying. I do not feel anything. We take off from Barcelona, ​​once again. They are coming from their cheap trip. I wonder if they have not been robbed. Barcelona is a city of crime. This has been done many times. Flight. My flight is almost over. This is a short flight. They call me inexperienced. Just go to the bathroom. I will be remembered for this act. Do I want it? I don't want it. I want it. I don't know. I have to decide, right now. I will. I will be remembered. I've always wanted to fly. I'm going crazy. I just ...

I knew everyone who stabbed me with their daggers. I would have been a fool not to have known that it was coming. They attacked me like unruly brats, and yet just one blow killed me. Me Julius Caesar. Then I knew, and I covered my face for death. Poets note. Gaius Julius Caesar was a Roman general and dictator 

You came from far away, from Ukraine to escape the war, to the land of your dreams. You were just trying to get home from work when death struck. You couldn't find peace even in the land of your dreams, when someone thought you could read their thoughts. When the knife took you in anger and madness, you returned to the images of death in horror, to the end of your short life. Your dreams were left in a pool of blood while others watched when you died, alone in the land of your dreams.

I bled dry in a famous people's hotel with a knife and a baby in my belly. I always knew I would die before I turned twenty-one, and when I did, I would die famous. I was the blonde black bride of punk, Nancy Spungen. I don't remember who killed me, I was too crazy, but they say it was Sid. I was crazy, unpredictable and violent. So was Sid. We brought out the worst in each other. Our love could only end badly. Yeah, that madness and heroin.