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Not the peace of a cease-fire
Not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb
But rather
As in the heart when the excitement is over
And 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 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 thud of the heavy rubber stamp
Let it be light, 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 generation
To the next, as in a relay race:
The baton never falls.)

Let it come
Like wildflowers
Suddenly, because the field
Must have it: wildpeace