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 Wadhwa with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and his name
Advocate of Exiles. From his beacon-hand
Glows world-wide scorn; his wild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your desperate poor!" cries he
With loud lips. "Give me your young, your skilled,
Your engineers yearning to make more money,
The elite of your teeming shore.
For the rest of you: get lost!