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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Venus

You wait for something
to descend like an eagle.
Your arms are cold branches
shorn of their greenness,
naked in their purity,
saying,
cover me with life!
I am love!
I want to live!
I am a ruined solitude!

She stands alone,
in a museum,
unmindful of passers-by.
Why must she be in this place?
She should weep in the rain.
Feel the wind on her form.
Be kissed by strangers
hungering for a kiss.
Love so gentle,
so terrible,
locked forever in stone.

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