A brief sojourn in the Ural Mountains had ended badly.

Many years later he was haunted by the deadly confrontation.

But the New Dogma had prevailed over the Old Order,

and vestiges of bourgeois frippery had to be swept away.

He had been caught up in the Revolution’s tick tock.

For appearances he went along, but polemical fervor baffled him.

Yurovsky remained an artist at heart; Beethoven was his god.

Now, years later, a silent metronome sat atop his piano.

The clavier cast a long shadow on the parquet floor.

Guests gathered to hear old Yurovsky perform the marcia funèbre.

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