Not that of a cease-fire,
let alone the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
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.
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.)