Mother Of All Exiles Poem by Patti Masterman

You're tired, you're poor;
Wretched and homeless, beside the door-
Toss your torch, is there no more gold?
Then leave these storied lands of old.

Teeming masses should not live free,
At sunset gates you shall not stand;
We'll toss your limbs, from land to land-
And make of you refuse, like the Greeks.

A mighty pomp the twin-cities command,
And silence the only answering name:
A giant astride the conquered imprisoned-
And lightning now the only flame.