Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream <br />of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will <br />suddenly rain down on them- will rain down in buckets. But <br />good luck doesn't even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter <br />how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is <br />tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or <br />start the new year with a change of brooms. <br /> The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of nothing. The <br />nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, <br />dying through life, screwed every which way. <br /> Who don't speak languages, but dialects. <br /> Who don't have religions, but superstitions. <br /> Who don't create art, but handicrafts. <br /> Who don't have culture, but folklore. <br /> Who are not human beings, but human resources. <br /> Who do not have names, but numbers. <br /> Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the <br /> police blotter of the local paper. <br /> The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them<br /><br />Aimee Rozen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-nobodies-written-by-eduardo-galeano/
