Laughing At The Clouds

The Nobodies by Eduardo Galeano

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream
of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will
suddenly rain down on them—will rain down in buckets.
But good luck doesn’t rain down yesterday, today, tomorrow, or
ever. Good luck doesn’t even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter
how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is
tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or
start the new year with a change of brooms.
     The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The
nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied running like rabbits,
dying through life, screwed every which way.
      Who are not, but could be.
      Who don’t speak languages, but dialects.
      Who don’t have religions, but superstitions.
      Who don’t create art, but handcrafts.
      Who don’t have culture, but folklore.
      Who are not human beings, but human resources.
      Who do not have faces, but arms.
      Who do not have names, but numbers.
      Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the
      Police blotter of the local paper.
      The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.