Under the olive trees, from the ground
Grows this flower, which is a wound.
It is wiser to ignore
Than the hero’s medalled hour.
Blazing with flags on the world’s shore.
Its blood-black petals have no name
Except the coward’s hidden shame.
Here one died, not like a soldier,
From gun-shot, but the void of terror.
His final moment was the birth
Of the revelatory truth:
That the transport at the quay,
His mother’s care, his lover’s kiss,
The waving handkerchiefs of spray,
All led him to this emptiness:
All the fantasies betrayed,
Flesh, bones, muscles, eyes,
Assembled in a tower of lies,
Scattered on the icy breeze,
Dreams of victory in one instant
Changed to this unchanging present,
Death under the olive trees.

To populate his loneliness
And to bring his ghost release
Love and pity dare not cease
For a lifetime, at the least.