Madame de Notre Terre

Here are your processed and manufactured lives,
Filled with the decadent and dishonest.
Here are your tired
Here are your poor
Here are your huddled masses
yearning to breathe free.
The homeless, the tempest-tossed,
Here they lie, at your feet!
Take them Mother,
And form them better in your hands
for each is tarnished o’er
with the sick green cost of you.
Autonomy, take them back,
For too long olden times have been glorified.
Wash them in the sea, Lady, and your hands.
May they then rise faultless and new.