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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


Last night the storms
came like marauding armies.
Their torches burned the earth.
I sank into my bed
like a refugee,
as if the warmth of my blanket
had magical powers.
As if the wind,
searching for my body
howled in anger,
and I sighed with the trust
of a child in pure innocence.

Out there, in the blackness,
a battle was being fought
between life and death,
the rise and fall of empires,
towering thunder heads
slashing with white swords,
and between the shouting,
the heavy fall of rain
on the roof,
a voice said,
you are safe, child.

You may sleep.
Nothing in this struggle
involves you,
or the small life inside you.
And I moaned
as if the whole eon of my life
were a sad, loving fantasy,
that would be over when I woke,
and the damage of the storms
would be gone with the noise.

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