Thursday, March 11, 2010

Tomorrow

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.


Edwin Castro

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