Crying for her first emperor…
Her tears mingle wearing his crossed-collar
Blue silk blouse in bed
And, when there dried, she's interned in clay.
With her terracotta army,
With her terracotta, stalwart, horse.
Oh she's crying for her first emperor…
For her first loves dynasty,
Oh she'll excavate - all those undeserving,
Others and weep, whilst!
Her stalwart horse pulls… at the bit.
And until her - jade-black hair!
Turns grey and falls from its pine-cone-braids.
And, rest on her moon, washed, collarbones.
She'll remain resolute! Warm in his robes…
In his crossed-collar blue silk blouse
In his crossed-collar blue silk blouse
Until one day, she'll be rapt - naked
Warm beside him; again in his loving throes.
But until then he'll be engaging in a war
Far, far out of her hollow weepings reach…
He'll be trembling in his gun-boots.
Driving his chariots, over the rank and file…
Of her dream terracotta army,
Sent to bring him back to her bedchamber!
On a stalwart, horse, sent to…
Sent to… Sent to…
Sent to rescue; him from drowning.
poem by Mark Heathcote
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
