Peace is a perfect thing,

like carrying a rose in our palms.

So shall it be that we hide peace in our souls

the same way our mothers hide fish in the rafters.

Violence is the proposition for peace

when the sky has a gathering of green stars

unwilling to stay calm in the face of a standstill;

see the gradual illumination of the moon

when the sun is shy, the light of the clouds is dim.

So, the arm of disruption hits the bulk of every order.

There is war without the shooting of armour

when the earth is a sprawling desert

and the sky is full of rivers,

where mountains are the dinner tables of eagles

and the gates of Heaven are on the verge of opening;

There’s more survival if hedgehogs grow from roses,

mushrooms sprout from pyramids of rocks,

oil from stones, mountains from valleys,

dandelions grow from the thorns of forests;

if every lake is a hill, every pond is a fragmented mountain;

there’s something to separate the cat from the lion

when years elapse without one growing into the other.

My father wore a shirt that radiated peace,

but everywhere I go, his shadow follows me

like an umbrella against the ravages of the grasshoppers.

Tell me not about the peace between the sun and the moon

when their rays ravage their asteroid's beauty,

when, without arms, kingdoms fight with nakedness

or kick against one another till they become lame.

And now, I can tell my father’s shadow is right,

that he never fought a war of blame.