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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


The world was very silent last night.
I was in a synagogue
where the last canto was sung.
A church that rang with after tones,
like rain already fallen.
The forest when it wakes,
the leaves uncurling their faces,
the air like silk,
being unfolded
like a tapestry of butterflies
rising in the pale face of the sky.
It was quiet,
as if for a moment
everything was ready to be born.
I scarcely breathed.

I kept walking not wanting to be still,
becoming part of invisible doorways.
So still that the stars became audible,
a music I’d never heard,
songs crossing the path of an open void.
I never knew so much aching and longing
existed in those faraway ports,
where notes sought for a violin,
a flute,
a voice to release their tremolos.

I turned and saw the earth
with its horizon,
a blue kindness.
I felt ripples ascending
in the softness of the air,
dreams made by women
looking through the windows
of their hearts.
Men in debt,
playing ball in the fields
of their childhood,
and I walked slowly
as if a cadence were made
from the beating of so much power,
and I was the last man alone,
to hear
the call of so much singing.

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