Enough with the Huddled Masses Already!

The world has gone mad with it's increasingly hostile approach to migrants. We cry for walls and fences, turn back boats and ship people off to dead end camps and hidden away detention centers. We put a gag in the mouths of those who would cry out for justice and trumpet out an exclusive invitation only to the best and brightest. Meanwhile the base of the New Colossus, must be deeply dust-covered. Brush it away and read the inscription that must have been written by some strange and alien civilization:

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!"

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