La última prosa

I don't know if to wait for you again
for one morning or two.
The juice in my shadow is burning,
the good news is you... it's you.
The night is tired of seeing me,
maybe it's better to rest.
Outside it's cold and late
the today of the clock fell asleep... and left.
And you will come with a smile
wrapped in the breeze,
and you will see me useless, mad, unconsciously.
I will step on your bed of graves (and not butterflies).
I will solve the last prose,
solve my things, in solitude.