Khaberni - I am a citizen from the seventies, and now I am bidding farewell to the age of seventy.
I feel that the last journey is approaching, and my steps toward the sunset have become slower than before.
Nevertheless, I still believe in the dream, and I write it on a yellow paper... perhaps in some time it will bloom.
I dream that we have an official from the class of the poor,
from a house that resembles the houses of the poor,
from a mother who would quench hunger with bread soaked in tea,
and from a father who divided his salary among medicine, a notebook, and a piece of bread.
I dream that he has tasted the flavor of fried tomatoes on Thursday nights,
and smelled the scent of lentils boiling in a small house warmed by patience.
I dream that he has experienced the waiting — waiting for the paycheck, and waiting for dignity.
For when the official is from the poor,
he will fear for the nation as the poor fear for their children's sustenance.
I dream that corruption is buried as outcast corpses are buried,
that justice returns from its exile,
and that the middle class stands tall again,
and that the nation becomes more just, warmer, more humane.
But I fell into another dream... a dream thick with darkness.
I saw faces without features, smiling at screens and stealing from bread and conscience.
And when the threads of dawn shone, I was in my eighties,
writing my last dreams, and leaving the nation with a question no one answered:
"If the poor dream, then who dreams of justice?"
