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    Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
    With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
    Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
    A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
    Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
    Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
    Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
    The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

    "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
    With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
    Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
    The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
    Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
    I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"


    Emma Lazarus 1883
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    Try as she might, the bronze giant could not turn her head to follow the path of the aeroplanes
    As they sped past her, fuelled as much by maniacal hatred as by aviation fuel
    As they smashed into the towers, sending flying a shard of glass for every star in the sky
    As they sent rock and fire down on the city as a man-made volcano
    As they blinked out the lives of thousands of her citizenry
    A second flame even higher than her own torch burned that day
    From atop her plinth, maybe she could even hear
    From across the world
    The laughter, the joy, the dancing of people around the world celebrating
    The deaths of Americans
 
 
 
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