Ziggurat. Bob Mazzei

      Ask yourselves if they are human beings when you see beating and you see those being beaten, some wining and some being conquered, some yelling orders and some bowing their heads, some shooting and some shot dead, some being born in abundance and some dying in loneliness and obscurity, some rejoicing in their minds and some only soiled by sweat and dirt for nothing in return but sour food, some creating and some destroying. Many things are found between servant and master, yet not certainly the human.

      So, I wish I could give myself a dream, not for gaining wings to make me fly higher above the con and the betrayal, but to get my arms to dig, legs to walk down the path, sight to unravel the dark. Because there, it hides the origin of slavery, moved by the same hand, the one, which brandishes the whip and furrows wounds, and the one, which ties chains that not even the sun, can light up.

      And how can I transmit such clearness if I lack it myself? Maybe, just the impalpable glow of a dream will lead me to that trip that I have missed so far.