Peace is found when the farm’s only sound is steps on the ground

Between great trees with their dead and living leaves and their

Worms and birds and bees all about, and abound, and flirt and flit around


Peace is made when we trade knives for spades:

Butchers’ blades degrade and fade away in rusty shades.


Peace is the scene when farmers plant trees:

The only death is leaves that fall with the rains washing out to the seas

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