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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Song of the Crow

I heard the crow
outside the window.
It called for its mate.
It called
with its hoarse voice
like a river falling
over a precipice,
enough of the river,
dreams scattered in the wash.

At last the crow stopped.
Flew away somewhere.
Perhaps nowhere.
Did what people do
when they are lost,
following their feet,
going nowhere to somewhere.
Until
heard out of nothing,
a song calling,
where the crow flies,
with dreams
to fill the heart.

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