Leavenworth, Kansas, March 14th, 1922

Miss Ellen White
New York, N. Y.

My dear Comrade:
Your dear letter of the 28th of last February, with copy of the letters by Mr. Weinberger, 1 and some flowers, received.
            Mr. Weinberger is working nicely. He sent me copy of a letter he wrote to Lucia wherein he is doing is told. I am afraid, however he has not gotten the laboratory’s report. This is the most convincing document as to the seriousness of my aliments, for it is not the opinion of a physician based on guesses, and which might be influenced according to his sympathies or antiphaties. The laboratory report is based on stern facts – the reactions operated by chemicals on the sputum. The chemicals say the truth; they do not incur in error; they cannot have bias, and for his reason I have insisted so much in the importance of Mr. Weinberger getting hold of the laboratory’s report in its full length, for I understand that the experts make in it some recommendations as to what I need to prevent consumption. Please tell Mr. Weinberger that a faithful copy of the complete document should be desirable, as after that no one would dare to insist stating that my health is good… Miss Blackwell writes me, and says that Mr. Daugherty wrote Mr. Roewer that I am afflicted with a cataract… when I have cataracts in both eyes! By one year hence he may say that I have no cataracts at all… but let us leave this sordid subject alone, to strike on a pleasanter than the flowers you sent me? They are dead, it is true, but I do not know why, even dead, flowers are poetic… at least for me. It may be, perhaps because I cannot see them without thinking of unfulfilled dreams and withered hopes, which are dead flowers also, alas, and I have many of these… But who is he who does not bear in his soul an overcrowded graveyard of withered hopes and dead dreams? The rich and the poor, the healthy and the infirm, the learned and the ignorant, all have their hopes and their dreams, and they all love their dreams and their hopes. A great many of these hopes and these dreams may not fly, they may crawl, they may creep about like worms in search of filthiness… but they are cherished by their possessors nevertheless. The noblest and most beautiful hopes and dreams, however, are those of the oppressed. These hopes and dreams have wings, they fly because they are aspirations of what they have not – Peace, Justice, Freedom the universal desire of those who bear a yoke; the common aspiration of those who drag a chain in every latitude, under whichever sky, in every nook and corner of this Earth; the hope of the Asiatic coolie and the Egyptian fellah, the dream of the Russian muzhik and the Mexican peon…. These dead flowers speak to me of dreams and hopes, and I sigh, and a sweet melancholy takes possession of me. Flowers should not die; hopes and dreams should not die—they are so beautiful! Most fortunately when one dies another takes its place equally charming and lovely and one thus gets strength to drag on, to drag on… There is darkness all around, and one does himself to sit and die—he gropes, he gropes about, and why? because of hope… And I think that even the man about to be hung, when his neck shrinks at the cold touch of the noose, must perceive faintly gleaming in his brain, like a glow-worm creeping in the dark, the spark of a hope—that of the sudden snapping of the rope whose contact makes his flesh crawl… All blessings for Hope, the dynamic force which gives one strength to drag on. Kill Hope, and Life herself will disappear, for Hope is condition of Life.
            I thank you, my dear Ellen, for your words of sympathy on account of my ailments, and I am grateful to the comrades you speak of for the same. Your love, their love, gratifies me, comforts me – love is so rare a bliss for the rebel… Hatred—this is the usual reward of the who honestly says what he thinks. I know storms hanging on my head; I know of fits threatenly shaking all around me; there is on room in my face for the saliva of those who refuse to be my friends, and I choke in an atmosphere poisoned with the breath of anger, and Despair, and Contempt, but this whiff of love from my good comrades soothes me, calms me with its sweetness and freshness. “Thanks”, I know, is a poor word to give in exchange of love—the greatest of gifts—but in this case it is the expression  of a delicate emotion that woke up in my soul when your sympathy called at its door, and so, I feel delight in repeating the word—thanks, thanks, thanks…
            There I on space for more, and I must close my letter. I feel just the same as during the last five or six months—bad—and my flesh dwindles, dwindles, dwindles. I belong to a remarkably strong stock, and this has helped me; but now I know that I am mortally wounded…
            With love to our Erma, all the comrades, and for you in great measure, I say

Ricardo Flores Magón

Leavenworth, Kansas, a 14 de marzo de 1922

Srita. Ellen White,
Nueva York, N.Y.

Mi querida camarada:
Recibí su apreciable carta del 28 de febrero pasado, acompañada de las copias de las cartas del Sr. Weinberger, con algunas flores adjuntas.

            El Sr. Weinberger está trabaja