The daughter of the worker, the daughter of the peasant, won’t have to prostitute herself -- bread and work will come from her honorable labor.
No more tears in the homes of workers. You’ll stroll happily over the laughter of paved roads, bridges, country lanes. . . .
Tomorrow, my son, everything will be different; no whips, jails, bullets, rifles will repress ideas. You’ll stroll through the streets of all the cities with the hands of your children in your hands -- as I cannot do with you.
Jail will not shut in your young years as it does mine; and you will not die in exile with your eyes trembling, longing for the landscape of your homeland, like my father died. Tomorrow, my son, everything will be different.