POETRY: Wildpeace, by Yehuda Amichai

Not that of a cease-fire,
let alone the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
but rather
as in the heart after a great excitement: you can only
talk about the weariness.
I know that I know how
to kill: that’s why I’m an adult.
And my son plays with a toy gun that knows
how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.
A peace
without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,
without words, without
the heavy thud of the rubber stamp: I want it
gentle over us, like lazy white foam.
A little rest for the wounds—
who speaks of healing?
(And the orphans’ outcry is passed from one generation
to the next, as in a relay race:
the baton never falls.)

I want it to come like wildflowers,
suddenly, because the field
needs it: wildpeace.


(Translated from the Hebrew by Chana Bloch.)

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