The longest game. One where freedom reigns no matter your skin, gender, class, and origin. A place where prejudice comes to die because our forefathers understood adaptation. Understood how a monarchy and even parliament failed to change as the masses changed. The necessarily to have amendable laws and rules that, when times needed, could be changed to reflect the era. Not in the name of tyranny or discord but so that this country would outlast any other country through greatness. Not by the power it wielded over its neighbors and enemies but by its long-standing potential and ability to grow and change. An experiment to be sure but a great one with purpose beyond petty rivalries among the masses.
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!"
No American shuts the doors to this great nation to those seeking refuge. No Christian neither.
