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Ειρήνη
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Ειρήνη (Ελληνικά) |
Ειρήνη (Αγγλικά) |
Ασκήσεις επιπέδου 1 |
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A child’s dream is peace A mother’s dream is peace The words of love under the trees, That is peace. A father who gets back at dusk with a wide twinkle in his eyes with a straw bag in his hands full of fruits and the sweat drops on his forehead are like the drops of the earthen pot which freeze up the water on the window, that is peace. When the scars from the wounds heal on the world’s face and in the pits that the bombshells dug we plant trees and in the hearts that the fire burned, the first blossoms of hope burst and the dead can lean on their side and fall asleep without lament while they know that their blood wasn’t wasted. That is peace. Peace is the smell of food in the evening when the stop of a car in the street causes no fear, when a knock on the door means a friend and the opening of the window every hour means the sky that entertains our eyes with its colorful bells, that is peace. Peace is a glass of hot milk and a book in the face of the child who wakes up. When wheat ears lean to each other saying: the light, the light, the light, and the horizon’s ring bristles with light That is peace. When prisons are turned into libraries when a song comes up from sill to sill at night when the spring moon comes out from a cloud just like the workman comes out from the neighborhood’s barber-shop, fresh-shaven, on Saturday night That is peace. When the day that passed isn’t a day gone but it’s the root that grows its leaves of joy in the evening and it’s a day earned and a fair sleep when you feel the sun tying its strings again, hastily to chase the sorrow from time’s corners That is peace. Peace is the rays’haystacks on summer’s plains it’s the alphabet of kindness on dawn’s knees. when you say: my brother – when we say: tomorrow we will build when we build and sing That is peace. When death takes up little space at heart and the chimneys show happiness with confident fingers when the nightfall’s big carnation can be smelt by both the poet and the proletarian That is peace. Peace is shaking hands of people It’s the hot bread at the world’s table It’s a mother’s smile It’s only this. Peace is nothing else. And the plows that draw (dig) deep furrows all over the earth they draw only one name: Peace. Nothing else. Peace. Upon the rails of my verse the train that runs to the future heavy with wheat and roses That is peace. My brothers, In peace, all people breathe freely with all their dreams. Shake hands, my brothers, That is peace. |
