this one was no philanthropist,
avoided meetings, department stores, arenas,
he never ate the flesh of his like.
violence walked in the streets,
smiling, not naked;
but there were screams in the sky.
people's faces were indistinct;
they seemed crushed
even before the blow fell.
the one thing he had fought for all his life,
with words and with teeth, grimly,
cunningly, on his own account:
the thing he called his peace,
now, that he has it, there is no mouth
to his skeleton now, no mouth to taste it.
To the Grave of a Peace-Loving Man, 1964, tr: Gertrude C. Schwebell
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