Standing at the entrance of the tomb of the King of Nanyue, the humid air seems to still contain the breath of more than 2,000 years ago. The tomb passage is not long, the bluestone slabs have been worn warm by the years, and the blurred chisel marks on the wall are the last body temperature left by the craftsmen.
The lights in the main coffin room are very low, and the bronze chimes are glowing in the shadows. It is hard to imagine what kind of banquets these silent metals have played. The outline of the human sacrifice pit is vaguely discernible, and those young bones have long turned into dust, but it makes people suddenly understand that luxury and cruelty are twins in the tombs of Han Dynasty kings and princes.
What touched me most was the pottery in the east side chamber. Compared with the emperor's gold and jade ceremonial weapons, the plain urns and jars with rope patterns are too ordinary, as if they were just moved from the farmer's stove. But it is these daily utensils that make the cold tomb have the smell of fireworks in the world - it turns out that no matter how prominent the identity is, what you care about in the end may still be the warmth of a bowl of porridge and a meal.
Walking out of the tomb passage, the sunlight is a bit dazzling. Those stories buried deep underground are told anew through the mottled cultural relics. They do not talk about rise and fall, but only say that there was such a group of people who lived seriously, loved, and said goodbye solemnly.