The Perfect World Poem by MIGUEL CAMACHO

I was just a boy. A kid, in a poor country a place where dreams starved right next to stomachs. A place where 'tomorrow' wasn't promised, because 'today' was already empty.

We migrated. Chasing hope like it was air running toward the whisper of a future we had to believe in. The U.S. A land with books, with classrooms, with fathers who stayed.

But I still don't get it. How can we dream of a perfect world while we sharpen words like knives and throw hate like grenades? I don't understand how war lives in the hands of God aren't we, His kids? Aren't we all flesh and soul stitched together with the same breath?

Why would a father watch his children burn each other and call it destiny? This perfect world it feels impossible. Like reaching for the moon with tied hands and broken trust. But maybe, if we start thinking as one If we drop the guns and raise our voices,
feed the hungry, stand shoulder-to-shoulder instead of nation-to-nation...

Then maybe we become what we've always pretended to be:
brothers, sisters, builders of something better. A world that lifts
instead of breaks. A world that succeeds because it never leaves
anyone behind.