A soldier dreams of white lilies

Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. He dreams of white lilies Of an olive branch, Of her breast at bloom in evening. He dreams, he told me, of a bird, Of lemon blossom, And doesn’t seek to analyse his dream, understanding things Only as he feels and smells them. He understands, he told me, that home ‘Is to drink my mother’s coffee,        To return of an evening.’ I asked him: ‘And the land?’ He said: ’I know it not. I do not feel that it is-as poems express it- My very skin and heartbeat. I noticed it suddenly as I do the shop, the street, newspapers.’ I asked him: ‘Do you love it?’ He answered: ‘love is short outing, A glass of wine, an affair.’ ‘Would you die for it?’ ‘Certainly not. The only bonds that tie me to the land Are a fiery article, a lecture- They taught me to be in love with love of it, But I have not felt its heart is mine, Have not breathed in the scent of grass, of roots, of boughs.’ ‘And what was it love like?’ Did it sting like suns, like craving?’ He turned to me and answered: ‘For me love’s instrument is a gun And the silence of an old statue Whose ages and identity are lost.’ He talked to me of the moment of farewell, Of how his mother wept in silence as they led him off To some place at the front. His mother’s anguished voice Was carving out a new longing under skin: O that doves might grow up in the Ministry of Defence, O that they might! He smoked, then said to me, As though fleeing from a morass of blood: ‘I dreamt of white lilies, Of an olive branch, Of a bird embracing the morning On the bough of lemon tree.’ ‘And what did you say?’ ‘I saw what I had made: A red boxthorn I had exploded in the sand, in breasts, in bellies.’ ‘And how many did you kill?’ It’s difficult to count them,        But I got one medal.’ Torturing myself, I asked him: ‘Tell me about one of the ones you killed.’ He sat up straight, toyed with the folded newspaper, And said to me, as though reciting a song: ‘Like a tent he collapsed on the stones, Clasping to him the shattered stars. A crown of blood marked his high forehead. His chest was bare of medals- He was no fighter. It seems he was a farmer, a labourer, a pedlar. Like a tent he collapsed upon the stones and died, His arms stretched out, Like two dry streams, And when I searched his pockets for his name, I found two photographs: One of his wife, One of his young daughter.’ I asked him: ‘Did you grieve?’ Interrupting, he answered: ‘Mahmoud, my friend, Grief is white bird That does not come near the battlefields. Soldiers sin who grieve. Over there I was a machine, spitting out fire and death, Turning space into a black bird.’ Later He spoke to me of his first love, Of distant street, Of his reactions to the war, Of press and radio heroism, And when he had hidden his cough in his handkerchief, ‘Let me be,’ He said. ‘I am dreaming of white lilies, Of a street that is singing, of a house that is lit. I want a good heart not a loaded rifle. I want a sunlit day, not the mad, Fascit moment of conquest. I want a smiling child meeting the day with laugher, Not a piece of the war machine. He bade me farewell, for he was searching for white lilies, For a bird that meets the morning On an olive branch, Because he understands things Only as he feels and smells them. He understands, he told me, that ‘Home is sipping my mother’s coffee,        And coming back safe of an evening.