The dream has no age. It grows in the cradle of the infinite. It roosts in the hearts of people. The dream, as the eternal progenitor of history, at the moment it may die, at that same moment, it is born. Just as it happens with the vastness and the infinite. It will last as long as life lasts.

Often you find it in the embrace of optimism traveling through the chaos from which it comes. At one of the many stops of my life, I found that dream and hope are the parents of creation. There in Cuba and Nicaragua, dream and hope, tightly embraced, traveled to their own Ithaca. Where everything smelled of revolution by the enslaved against the dictators and colonizers.

There, in Central America, which has been boiling and suffering for years from wars and passions. In the eyes of the fighting Cubans and Nicaraguans, I saw images of Fidel Castro, Che Guevara, Sandino, Daniel Ortega, José Martí.

So what if it achieved all that the revolution dreamed of. So what if it compromised. So what if it may have deviated from its goals. In the other eyes, those of the oppressors, I saw the fear painted that the uprising of the wronged brings. The tyrants tremble even at the possibility that tomorrow the dream and hope will give birth to another, a new revolution in another country, on another land, in other places.

This is the journey to Ithaca that will never end, as long as people live. Simply because you, dear reader, and I and all of us are simultaneously both the perpetrators and the creators of tomorrow. I wish, with the same flame, to meet in the pages of memories, as they are recorded in the book you hold, and to journey together.

Our beacon is the bright slogans written on walls, on placards, in our souls.