Not the peace of a cease-fire <br />not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb, <br />but rather <br />as in the heart when the excitement is over <br />and you can talk only about a great weariness. <br />I know that I know how to kill, that makes me an adult. <br />And my son plays with a toy gun that knows <br />how to open and close its eyes and say Mama. <br />A peace <br />without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares, <br />without words, without <br />the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be <br />light, floating, like lazy white foam. <br />A little rest for the wounds - who speaks of healing? <br />(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation <br />to the next, as in a relay race: <br />the baton never falls.) <br /> <br />Let it come <br />like wildflowers, <br />suddenly, because the field <br />must have it: wildpeace. <br /> <br /> <br />Translated by Chana Bloch<br /><br />Yehuda Amichai<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wildpeace/
