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"A widow's lament in an age without flowers"

Late on the night of January’s frost,
I watched my husband pay the final cost.
They brought him wreathes, they brought him song,
they crowned his rest, they called it strong.

But I cannot forget the other ground,
where no flowers bloom, no bells resound.
The Romanov children, stripped and slain,
their bodies hidden in Siberian rain.

Graveless, cancelled, rubbed from unscrolled page,
yet their voices cry against the rage.
No cenotaph, nor a marble stone;
unperturbed, unmarked and overgrown.

And I, the widow, dare not tell
my comrades of this thought of Hell:
What if the Faith they sought to kill
still tolls its bell, relentless, shrill?

For one is celebrated, banners unfurled,
while others are banished from this world.
Yet stars above, with hostile light,
judge both alike in endless night.

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