She hated the food, the guards,
the very place where her family
and servants were certain to die;
where somehow, miraculously,
the daughters of the Monarchy
would forever shroud any evidence of
advancing the Romanov bloodline.
Soldiers patrolled the mansion turned
prison, walking the halls as muffled conversations
seeped through the walls and floors,
the Czarina’s voice carrying through
the airspaces and into the room
where her daughters sewed hurriedly.
Anastasia found such affairs interesting,
her mother’s motives incredulous;
moved her emotions to extremes, especially
with thoughts of surviving the execution,
saddened at the thought of losing everything else.
Just before the Czarina and the girls
were blindfolded and taken away,
they had feverishly finished tatting
the final, precious stones
into their executional clothing.
As the boots kicked in the doors
and pointed their rifles at the family fortune,
the girls fastened their bullet-proof vests,
marched down to the cellar as commanded.
Nicholas II and Alexandra fell,
as well as their weakened son, Alexei,
his doctor, and three servants.
Just after the bullets ended their consciousness,
the eleven marksmen lowered their rifles,
gunpowder overtaking the dankness in the air.
As the shots rang out all eleven
fell; Anastasia and her sisters
lost all life in their limbs,
their minds make-believing death,
their faces touching the blood
that was not to live on.
Over and over and over again
the Czarina implanted what actions
were necessary for survival.
And as her daughters fell
they never made a sound,
and prayed to Jesus
they would live another day.
rewrite from november two thousand six
audio recorded march two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved