By a gold brow ornament over their third eye,
There are thousands of them, about the size of dogs
And terrified of Mongols, though a very few
Are dug out from the sunken pyramid complex
With its nine gates, where the emperor's, they say, buried.
Each horse is interred with its warrior, and sight lines
To the stable boys, so they know they're still cared for
In the afterlife, and waterfowl are there too
To perform their songs, turns out, for the emperor
And the 6,000 figures in each pit, dressed not
Like warriors but priests, serene, the ones who have seen
Everything, in what seems one flash-frozen instant,
Their life essence to be stored in terracotta.
Their faces are too various and real, detailed
In too many shapes, shades, myriad of moustache
To be the work of unaccounted-for potters
And improbable methods, for some emperor
Because he asked. A dollop of fear holds each face,
Insight runs through every eye. There's something they saw
Not a moment before. They're looking at it now,
The still life forever moment they're brave enough
To endure with whatever story their minds could
Confiscate as they gaze wide-eyed into the void
Awaiting the mystery with all that they know,
These observers who just observe the observing.
They know they are immortalized in that moment
And are sad for the others who've been left behind
To mundane wars and never knowing who they are.
These faces know, but, even now, aren't telling.
The cinnabar and Chinese purple, malachite,
Cobalt, ochre — their identifying colors
Are just glitter on their ash, this "painted army,"
Who've finally been granted their one wish all along,
To be one, and no longer to be separate,
Betrayed again by the paint on their square slip-ons.
