Reflections upon Seeing Photos of the Romanovs

Out of the Depths, I cry to you O God.

Floating, ethereal,

their ghostly images,

pale and cold

with complexions like china dolls.

Laughter rides faint on the wind,

rustling the tall oaks.

A child hides in a corridor,

smiles at Mama.

As evening comes,

apprehension sets among the tribe.

Hold them close, as the sun sets.

Charon will ferry you home.