Not the peace of a cease-firenot even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,but ratheras in the heart when the excitement is overand you can talk only about a great weariness.
I know that I know how to kill, that makes me an adult.
And my son plays with a toy gun that knowshow to open and close its eyes and say Mama.
A peacewithout the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,without words, withoutthe thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it belight, floating, like lazy white foam.
A little rest for the wounds - who speaks of healing?(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generationto the next, as in a relay race:the baton never falls.)Let it comelike wildflowers,suddenly, because the fieldmust have it: wildpeace.
Translated by Chana Bloch
