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.

Death is a long time to wait knowing that it will inevitably come. And I could not wait any longer. Your head falls and the people have had their revenge. I am hated as I was once admired. Lies and slander, there's enough of that. So short was the path from glory to the darkest dungeon that it turned me gray. I had nothing but my pride with the people mocking in the background the whole way to the guillotine. I kept it, my pride, and the people had their revenge. Queen Marie Antoinette was executed by guillotine.

I was a victim of the king's lust. I couldn't satisfy that lust either but many other women could. From the queen's maid to the queen, I paid for crimes I didn't commit, my greatest crime was not giving birth to a son, an heir. But I gave birth to a queen, and laughed on the scaffold, after all,  I was innocent of the crimes I was accused of, and an executioner was brought from France for me. Then I became the Queen of Heaven, worthy to the end. And my successor was already waiting for her turn. Anne Boley was the second wife of King Henry VIII, who was beheaded for infidelity and incest. The allegations were fabricated.  

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.

The cruel Tsar locked his son in a dungeon. What a weak-minded, willless, depiction of a man, the Tsar thought of his son. The son was afraid, of his father, a great, mighty, giant force of nature. God was his father to him, a God he feared. One day the Tsar appeared in the dungeon. Only the Father returned. Poets note. This poem is about Peter the Great and his son, Aleksei. 

The King and His Soldiers. Frozen, they retreated from the last battle. The King would die, and the strongest of the soldiers would see home. The King and his soldiers fought the last lost war in a snowy, icy land that remained in the hands of their masters. They had fought, destroyed, and lost Europe together. That had come to an end. The King's fate was the loneliest. It was never known whether his own soldiers shot him. Did the soldiers take revenge after his death? Their anger and screams could not be locked away in a dungeon. After death, there were no kings, no subjects. A scream could be heard. That too fell silent, no one heard. Death silenced even the loudest voices. Poets note. Carl XII was swedish king 18th century 

When our car hit the pillar of the Paris tunnel, I knew the world would talk about this for a long time. I had always been photographed, chased, and photographed again. They were after me again, the paparazzi, but for the last time. When I died, I belonged to history, not the paparazzi. I was Princess Diana, divorced, mother of a future king. I died, when my life began.