The New ColossusWatch this thread
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!"
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