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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


The gondolier pushes the boat
through streets of water.
How quiet without the traffic
of a crowd!
Musk and mildew
cover the corpus of the buildings.
Green algae forms lines
of indecipherable words.
Windows are open,
and people live in this stillness.
The passing of boats,
red cotton hanging on a line,
geraniums in boxes,
and a pale, occasional face
looking down on us,
like dreams that hover in their rooms.

There is nothing that is firm,
only sensual humidity,
an occasional voice,
shadows and bridges.
The rooms of the buildings
are filled with a limpid light.
A unique charm and pestilence.
It is a primeval place
seen from the boat.
Untouched walls of verdant leaves,
droplets of gold,
Venice passing into an ageless moment,
as if life has stopped,
hovers in the rafters,
smells of time bottled up,
suspended forever
inside the reflections of its canals.

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