IconElegies

They said that my heart was still beating even though I was dead. That black weekend I felt that I shouldn't have driven. I had never felt like that before, the race was always the most important thing. I had to win, or the championship would slip away. But the championship didn't seem meaningful either, not like this. My life ended in seconds when I hit a concrete wall. I looked up at the sky one more time, which had given me everything. A poet's note. F1 champion Ayrton Senna died in the 1994 Imola race.

I knew, of course, that I had been followed for a long time, threatened, but it was nothing new. Old Russia was waiting for me in the shadows of the staircase on Putin's birthday. There was nothing to fear in my last steps, I could not fear, because fear rules and someone must tell the truth, even to those who did not want to hear it. A shot, two, I heard no more, darkness descended on Moscow and on me. A poet's note. Anna Politkovskaya was a Russian journalist and Putin critic.

I came back from the dead, but I didn't get to heaven. I should be dead, but I live and speak. They wanted to kill me, because I deserved it. I had been preparing for 30 years to leave, but when the time came, I came back. I don't know if I will live again, a soul that would have been forgiven and would live. I had already given up my life, spoken my last words. Poet's Note. Christa Pike was sentenced to death, but she survived the execution.

No. I wasn't crazy, I was just talking nonsense,  it was just a good story. No. And Salieri didn't hate me, nor poison me, it was just a good story. No. I wasn't thrown into a pauper's grave, it was just a good story, just a common grave. I don't know if I was a genius, it's just that composing came easy to me,  it is a good story. A note from a poet. W.A.Mozart is still the greatest composer in the world.

The show should never be left unfinished, and I didn't, I collapsed. How ironic, that a man who defied death should die from the fist of a student boy. Well.  Maybe my body had already taken too many blows, and the last one was the last. Poet´s note. Harry Houdini was a magician and a king of chains

My name was Elisabeth Stride, but I was called Long-Liz in the street. The gentleman  who later became known as Jack the Ripper, murdered me in Whitechapel. He didn't mutilate me like an animal, but I couldn't have known that. He left me like trash in the street anyway. In reality I was Elisabeth Gustafsdotter, a peasant woman from Sweden. How I ended up living in Spitalfields,  as a drunk whore in the middle of the filth, is a long story, which would have been forgotten long ago  without Jack the Ripper. Poet's Note. Elizabeth Gustafsdotter, later Elisabeth Stride, was one of Jack the Ripper's victims.

What stories are told about me. I bet none of them are true. And if they were, I made them up myself. They are so afraid of women who take their fate into their own hands. My fate was to die in front of a firing squad. I was a lousy spy, if at all. Sometimes luck runs out and I was done. To the End. Elegant of course, but I was sad that no one even said goodbye, I danced my death alone. Poet's note. Mata Hari, real name Margaretha Geertruida Zelle, was a Dutch dancer.