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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Blessed Mother

I see the edge of your cheek
on the circumference of my hand.
A planet in the labyrinth of space.
Your eyes flush with rain,
the sublime metaphysics of your soul.
The hunger of an expression
looking from one cathedral of shadow
to another.
A precocious question of passion
on your lips,
feeling love so fragile,
so immense,
so complete with charity,
it is guarded by creation
from the commonplace of evil.

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