It nuh so brazen like the statue of that Greek God
of the sun, with him limb set like him can walk cross land.
Is nuh fi she that kind a boast and swagger. But here,
at the gate a this sea-wash harbour, this tallawah woman
stand-up with her torch, her flame drawing pon the force
of lightning imprison. Mek her name be known to all:
Mother of Exiles. And from her hand—outstretch, open—
mek this beacon signal the globe’s welcome. Her eyes
command the bridge of air and sea, joining nation
to nation. Her lips in silence speak this oath: “Ancient
lands, keep your storied pomp. 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.”
