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 childre, 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 superstitions.

 Who don't create art, but handicrafts.

 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.

 Eduardo Galeano, "The Nobodies"