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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


Give me the day as it is.
I want nothing of the past.
I am already covered with vines.
Everything flies apart with time.
We become islands,
stars wink out.
The curvature of time
becomes flat,
the wind stops at the shore,

I hear sounds
that ring like bells,
see faces so fresh
I follow them,
peeking from curtains.
I see quarries redeemed
with houses,
and ask,
how is this so?

A wasteland of rock
covered with walls and gardens,
and people
who had vanished inside themselves,
and turned into butterflies.
Perhaps that will happen to me.
A husk,
covered with the earth,
holding a nascent dream,
to wake,
returned with a flock of angels.

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