The New Colossus
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 lightening, 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!’
Seeing the Statue of Liberty was the highlight of my trip to New York City. I can’t put into words how moving the experience was, but I was shaken by the beautiful lady. Her words haunted me for days; her open arms and giving spirit resonated with my soul. Yes. I spent much time pondering what could be and what is, the sincerity of her symbol, and how much it is exploited and scorned.
Yesterday on my evening walk Sam Beam sang to me, and I was again shaken by words, lyrics, poems. The intention and the action, the dream and the reality. I look to my hands and feet. Where are you moving? What are you making? Do you lift your own lamp to the sea, welcoming?
Become the rising sun
Become the damage done
Become the sinner and the saint
Become the bandage and the blade
Become the fruit and the fall
Become the caress and the claw
Become the glory and the guilt
Become the blossom and the will
Become both right and wrong
Become the sound and the song
Become the honest and avail
Become the hammer and the nail
Become the blessing and the curse
We will become, become.
-Your Fake Name is Good Enough, Iron + Wine