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Seven Laments for the War-Dead
Mr. Beringer, whose son fell at the Canal that strangers dug so shops could cross the desert, crosses my path at Jaffa Gate. He has grown very thin, has lost the weight of his son. That's why he floats so lightly in the alleys and gets caught in my heart like little twigs that drift away. As a child he would mash his potatoes to a golden mush. And then you die. A living child must be cleaned when he comes home from playing. But for a dead man earth and sand are clear water, in which his body goes on being bathed and purified forever. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier across there. On the enemy's side. A good landmark for gunners of the future. Or the war monument in London at Hyde Park Corner, decorated like a magnificent cake: yet another solider lifting head and rifle,