All I've Got Left Is Time Travel No. 2

[busker]

where the Sun God rests his hands
worn rough from making mountains.

Is sublime. 
The rest of the poem has arresting images, but what I think is missing is an exploration of what it all means, of the inner lives of these men and women from times past. Or something like that. A second layer of meaning below the mere circumstance of hunting and killing.

Is the poet and therefore the reader merely observing? It would banal, if so.