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!”
I’m making a conscious effort to post more uplifting content (though for the time being that has not been my own poems, but rather my lived experiences and some shared sonic complements. I saw her this past weekend! Lady Liberty in all her glory. Thus, I’m sharing a snapshot of her, and a lovely choral piece based on her inscription and politicized sonically through the composition’s texture, Have a blessed weekend. ❤️❤️❤️
The Silent Singer 