Just read this little Norwegian poem:
They are all children when they sleep.
There is no war in them.
They open their hands and breathe
in the slow rhythm given to humans by heaven.
Whether soldiers, statesmen, servants, or masters
they purse their lips like small children
and they all half-open their hands.
Star stand watch then and the arch of the sky is hazed over
for a few hours when no one will harm another.
If only we could talk with each other then,
when hearts are like half-open flowers.
Words would push their way in
like golden bees.
-- God, teach me sleep's language.
Translated by Glenn Storhaug