To Graça Machel
Inhamisse, Mozambique 30 September 1993
"What is peace?"
We asked the old men.
They looked down at their parched hands,
their eyes hidden.
"For years," they said,
"We have known only war.
Even the chickens and the dogs
had to hide their heads."
Outside the heat was silent,
oppressive.
Then one raised his heavy eyes,
Shook his head sadly
And in a distant voice
began to speak.:
"Peace is a tree.
Its roots are deep in our land.
But its branches are barren of fruit
And its roots are starved for water.
For years it has suffered the drought of war.
Now people with foreign tongues
have come to cut it down,
To take its wood for whatever their reasons.
We must save the tree.
We must give it water.
Let it grow in the sun and rain.
If we respect it,
It will bring us the wisdom of our ancestors.
It will give us fruit again
and fuel for the fire,
And our children will play in its shade.
That is peace."
Outside the tears were falling.
The rains had returned to Mozambique.
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