As I look out through the barred window of my prison cell, I see a lonely dog passing by along the street. I used to feel sorry for the dogs when I was free, they looked so thin, with no home, and no love. Now I envy the dogís freedom. We who are in prison because we complained of injustice, are thinner and more despised than the dogs.
The homeless dog walks down the street like I did when I came to this city from my mountain home. He looks from side to side, watching the unfamiliar surroundings as he passes through this part of town, weary of strangers that might cause trouble. That dog, like me, has probably been chased and kicked by the people here, who donít think we belong in this big city. We are unwelcome by those who think they are better, because they were born here. Iím proud to be from the mountains, but the people born here call me a mountain boy to insult me. They think people from the countryside are ignorant and lazy. Although they want us to do all the hard jobs they won't do.
I left my small village, and everything I knew, because I dreamed of a better life in the big city. But at least in my village I had a home to sleep in. I used to think we were poor, but at least I had enough food. I long for the simple crops of corn and potatoes we had in our fields. Iím no better off now than the stray dog that passed by. Now my dreams are of my home in the Andes mountains.
What has happened to my life?
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