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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Child

It was night without stars or moon.
I could barely see.
I took a walk to escape myself,
to leave the world.
I sought a buried cave,
an onyx of pure darkness,
not blindness,
but the unblemished ink of innocence.
I was startled when a voice
came from the shadows,
a young voice full of caring.
“Come see,” it said,
“Come see!”

And shaken I stopped
and looked to the place of the voice,
like water empty of light,
“Come see!” it insisted.
Catching my breath
as if exhaling my soul, I asked,
“What, where?”
“Here,” it replied,
as if a step were enough,
as if following
need only be a gesture,
and I followed the voice.

I felt a hand take mine,
as if a petal brushed against my palm.
“Look,” it directed.
And I looked,
as the blackness parted,
and saw a child sleeping,
as if it were formed from light,
a flower of ivory,
its face delicate,
forever open,
the whisper of a smile,
perfectly composed.

“Who is this?” I asked,
knowing I was dreaming,
knowing I was in a place
where in my nocturnal wandering,
I had never been,
never seen.
“It is hope,” said the voice.
“You have asked so often.
You are being shown.
It is hope, and it is real,”
and the child became part of the night,
and the voice disappeared in the wind,
and I stood in the darkness,
weeping,
part of a dream,
a gift received on Christmas.

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