(Ekaterinburg, Russia,17 July 1918) <br /> <br />His mouth agape, as though still asking questions, <br />the Tsar lies at the end of his long reign. <br />(Blue lips almost struggle to explain, <br />caught in the halfway realm of last expressions.) <br /> <br />The Empress sprawls, hands crossing her stained bodice. <br />Behind her rest the bayoneted heirs, <br />blood in pools around their jewelled stares. <br />Yurovsky stands above the heap of bodies. <br /> <br />A Chekist practiced in the art of killing, <br />he commends his men as gun smoke settles. <br />Their trigger-fingers, though, are cocked and curled, <br /> <br />their executioner eyes more than willing— <br />all of them, like him, poor boys from shtetls, <br />still eager to help mend the broken world. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />*Hebrew for “the mending of the world”<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tikkun-olam/
