Es tan tarde ya

And for what
after you leave, you come back
and it's all over again
everything back?:
Toasting the bread
and that gesture upon waking
with nothing more to say,
nothing certain.
And then who
remembers well how you were
before you,
when you wanted?
How was I?
How was the world in your corner?
How was the heart?
Where did it beat?

How? It's so late already?
Was I singing so much?
Have another coffee, come
it's snowing outside.

And so I saw you
lose all the greenery here
and that warmth
that sheltered you.
Staying at the foot
of some old tradition
of indecision,
of 'give it time'
And nothing else
we have left but the impression
of a passion
turned to ashes.
And yet
I'm still here: it could be
(it could only be)
that it would ignite.

How? It's so late already?...