A father playing with his son, making
a mother smile while she sifts through clothes.
The child needs a haircut, but couldn't
spare a thought more. He'll have one Friday.
This is the American Dream.
Wrong.
This is the Human Dream, to radiate love for
one another in the care and sanctity of
a warm sun, a roof over ones head,
food, drink, joy.
This is the Human Dream, and,
one day,
all mankind will join hands and hearts.
Then, and only then, will it become
the Human Condition.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem