Ekaterinburg Psalm

The tsar knelt down, his hands were forged from dusk.
A crownless man with breath that smelled of musk.
His boots still bore the mud of dying kings,
His silence broke beneath the chambered wings.

The wall behind was pale as unborn bone.
It drank the blood but did not mourn or groan.
The rifle cracked like time itself had split -
A psalm unsaid, then buried bit by bit.

Tsaritsa turned - her lips were dry with prayer.
Her braid still held the scent of lilac air.
No final kiss. No priest. No holy oil.
Just lead and fire to consecrate the soil.

Tatiana blinked. The lamps refused to burn.
Maria’s soul began its slow return.
Anastasia’s breath was thin and low -
A bird beneath a tomb of iron snow.

Young Alexei, curled like unborn regret,
Held death like one holds dreams they can’t forget.
He wore his slow-decaying soul like thread,
Uncut, until they shot the stars to red.

The basement swelled with fumes of human sin.
A century began to crawl within.
The clocks recoiled. The earth forgot its light.
And blood became the law of July night.

No requiem. No drum. No shroud. No bell.
Just boots through blood where once an empire fell.
Yet somewhere deep, beneath the tsar’s last breath -
The saints still scream through cracks in Roman death.