O ye who still dream with open eyes— Behold! I sing of earth transfigured, Where man at last stands unshackled, His fetters burst like morning mist Before the ascending sun of will!

No longer shall the beggar's cry Pierce through the marble halls of plenty, No longer shall the child's bright flame Be smothered 'neath the ash of want. For in this world—mein liebstes Traumbild— Each soul shall feast upon abundance, Each heart grow fat with possibility!

Away with schools that murder wonder! Away with masters who birth servants! Here shall the young Prometheus learn To steal not fire, but lightning pure— To forge his thoughts in white-hot truth, To hammer wisdom on the anvil Of his own becoming! Every classroom A workshop for the Übermensch, Where children learn to overcome— Not merely to repeat and die.

The old gods crumble! Let them fall! Their temples now are houses of the wind. No longer shall we kneel before These phantoms of our fevered past. Instead—O sweetest revolution!— We birth our morals from the marriage Of dignity with love's wild dance, Creating values like the artist Creates his masterpiece: from nothing But the fire within his breast!

From Alpine peak to Appalachian ridge, The wanderer treads with unbound feet! No passport stamps, no border guards Can cage the soul that knows its worth. The earth becomes our common dwelling, Each mountain pass a doorway home, Each valley singing: "Enter, friend! Here you may plant your flag of being!"

And should the tyrant raise his fist, Should power drunk on its own poison Threaten our sacred Lebensraum— We laugh! We dance away like smoke! For we who own a thousand homes Can never truly be enslaved. The nomad heart beats free and strong, Untouchable as starlight scattered Across the infinite night sky.

Here, in this realm beyond all realms, We learn the arts that make us gods: To sway in music our soul's lightning, To paint the visions of tomorrow, To sculpt our flesh into pure strength, To bend machines like willing servants To our creative, wild design!

No leaders here but those who lead Through wisdom's bright authority— Not for the golden words of history, But for the golden now they forge! These philosopher-kings who govern Not peoples, but the paths to greatness, Who point the way but never drag The unwilling up the mountain steep.

O world! O earth transfigured thus! Where every child—each sacred spark— Burns bright and brighter still until They stand as towers of pure flame, As living lightning, conscious fire, As beings who have learned at last To be the authors of themselves!

This is my dream of tomorrow, My hope for what yet may be:

An earth where gods and followers are myths, Where only great beings dance free Beneath the laughing, boundless sky!