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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Longest Day

I’m following the geography
of the sun.
When days look back
at their shadows.
When a morose dream begins.
When light becomes precious,
not for its gold
but for a wine that cheers
the blood,
goes to the heart,
and it is light,
more potent as it stays.

Then I can follow the meridian
to the equator
and fall into the south
where spring is beginning.
When it’s opening its eyes again.
Do we live forever?
Each succeeding life following
the eternal soul of light,
round and round,
until there is only cinders left,
life somewhere
in the sweetness of ashes?

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