THE BAD DREAM

I dreamt about children today too,

the children of war.

They were going along in a car

hoping to cross the border, without any grownups,

alone, when they just barely knew how to drive.

Their parents, having despaired,

preferred their children to die on the highway

than in the city bombs were daily ripping apart.

They were running away, longing to take advantage

of the last chance that fate had left them.

Making every effort to wake up, but

time and again I sank down

once more into that bad dream.

Always the same dream.

It was children I dreamt about. The children of war.

I was a child too. And we were running away

toward the border, singing:

«Where are we going? I don't know!

Where are we going? Glad to go!»