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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


We see Sicily as if on some distant coast,
where the air rises with invisible power.
We see her cities of stone,
the sweetness of marble,
the heritage of ages,
and think,
would Rosa know her ancestral children?
Would Antonio hear our voices,
the gestures of hands,
the features of the faces
and see his family? His kind?

A century has passed.
How old the weathered wood
that supports the vine.
The confusion of other worlds,
yet the moon rises over the mountains,
a pair of lips, eyes, a nose
and they would touch our faces,
groping to recognize their friends,
their babies,
living in their adopted land,
and for them,
knowing no other,
they call home.

Sleep Rosa.
Sleep Antonio.
You were human,
and we toast your courage
and your vision.
Without you we are nothing.
With us,
you own the future.

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