The sweet silent peace rotates
above our heads,
and finds no place to rest.
It’s not that we moved,
but we are too sunk in the world.
The sun shines on the springtime sky,
raw green blossoms on branches.
Peace doesn’t have bird of passage wings,
it nests in the winter wind,
or in ruthless sandstorms.
Times deceive us again and again,
on this planet with a warm heart –
all words are knives, and javelins
in a propaganda warfare.
The sweet silent peace sits
in the cup of hands tied behind the back,
tenderly leading us through the White Sea.