The New Colossus, by Emma Lazarus
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 cannot find better words to describe what I feel right now. You can see it in the news. So much trouble, inequality, injustice. And yet, this day is a constant reminder that values and honor are like a beacon of light that guides stranded folks, coming from all places, during the darkest storms.
There is storm of its own here, so the light must come from within, and hopefully it'll remind us all that, in the end, we're equal, and we're all looking for the same thing: call this place a home.