Picture it now, the colossal statue that Trump is going to erect of himself, with an arm outstretched and a palm facing east, his other arm clutching an executive order that reads:
Get back, wretched refuse,
To your teeming shore.
You are not wanted anymore.
Go back, wretched refuse,
To your lives of fear.
You are no longer welcome here.
You wanted refuge, I suppose.
But now the Golden Door is closed.
I lift no lamp to guide you to my land.
I lift only my tiny little hand.
From the crumbling, bullet-ridden houses,
Full of countless childhood pictures,
From the smoldering cities,
Heavy with the smoke of countless fires,
From the dust of countless broken buildings,
Into the dust of the desert,
With countless broken people,
Their countless dead,
And all their possessions,
In the fire.
In the dust.
Across the world, across the sea,
For countless weeks,
They waited and hoped and prayed,
Their struggles, countless.
The horrors they’d witnessed, countless.
When they finally got there,
They were told,
That no one would help them.
That they were not wanted.
That they, the countless,
Did not count.