Closing the Golden Door
There is a poem written at the base on the Statue of Liberty, I wonder does it still hold true.
Will democracy ever grow, to know
what it’s like to white-wash walls,
water the bougainvillea
and welcome its flowers?
Flames are meant to be warm,
save flotsam from the sea, but
not all reactions are verdigris,
big steps only straddle the earthquake.
When the sun becomes a flash
and clouds can reach any continent,
will the slit of light still be seen, no matter
how obtuse our words have been.
Or will we watch, while the torch burns.