A dead king on top of a chariot,
his face like a mountain valley
beaten with storm, swathed in evening mist.
Behind the chariot walk female slaves,
their eyes painted green, their lips
traced with thick vermilion,
their long skirts flapping, their hips
like turtles awakening after winter sleep.
Women pace in pairs
with slim flasks of poison,
each woman carrying her little death,
singing in unison
and vanishing into the tomb.
There is no more king for whom
this procession was arranged, no more horses,
only a row of remaining women
gliding over the threshold
into the dark and cold.
You can also see
on the other side of this mortuary
a throng of freshly woven souls
stepping out of the plaster walls:
they no longer know who is the king,
who is a woman, who is a horse,
but cling together
and then burst scattering
over the sun-smeared grass,
while the procession continues
and women enter
through the eager door,
and the living sing louder
for those who sing no more.