The green patina of copper oxides,
The jade colored statue of the maiden of liberty,
That reminds every man, woman and child,
That over here, the grass is greener. How
Every minute rushes past faster than
A subway train, and the heartbeat
That rings aloud like a church bell, knowing
That no two seconds are identical here.
Here the social contract gives you a passport,
To one of many beginnings, to fall in
Love with a Latina woman (To have her at Hola!),
To start up your own Starbucks café, to take
Refuge in an Emma Lazarus poem
While looking up at the maiden of liberty,
Holding a torch and tablet.

Every migrant who has passed through this city,
Is a recipient of a Damascene conversion.
How a city lives bigger than a country,
One that shepherds his many children, through
The canopy of a larger-than-life colossus of liberty.
Freedom lives large here, as children
Look up at buildings taller, mightier,
Than statues of legendary Paul Bunyan,
Knowing that anyone holding the key
To this enchanted city, becomes larger than life, as the
Many landmarks of this place attest to;
Like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Centre,
Or the Empire State or Chrysler buildings.

How inspiring to feel,
That you’re more equal here, than
Anywhere else in this whole wide world.
Here the idiomatic grass is tall, lush and verdant,
It embezzles the human heart of heritage,
To be labeled as a New Yorker;
A specimen that camouflages itself
By the sheer numbers, walking down
Avenues and streets, or rising up elevators.
How the sapient apes of this concrete jungle,
Look out of their high-rising window panes,
To see a handful of migrant amigos,
On suspended scaffolds, holding a dirty
Cheesecloth, wiping off layers of dirt off glass.
A reminder of what a cubicle inside an office room,
And a hanging platform, have in common;
A beautiful conjecture called
The American dream.

How the umbra of liberty doesn’t
Distinguish a keyboard from a cheese cloth,
Only how much heart you invested upon it.
How it takes a heist of opportunity,
To harvest a special kind of serendipity….
How migrant men in khaki dungarees,
Look from the outside of dirty window panes,
Feeding water on glass, rotating counter-clockwise,
A cheese cloth clasped firmly inside their palms,
Making a little transparent opening,
To sneak a quick look inside a Wall Street office;
To gaze at 1,000-dollar Gucci suits,
Which their teenage sons, one day
Will look, just as spiffy in.