Wait: A Poem

Wait. 
Wait for the dry yellow, metal box
that shall bring me to you
in pieces
of grey sulfurous bags.
Wait for me then
and I shall come.
Wait.
Wait long enough
for
when the yellow rains,
fatigued,
shall ask to be soaked by you.
When the heat bakes 
and the blizzards clear,
waiting, wait, when the others have stopped 
for the night to dissolve into rings of music.

Wait.
Wait and I shall come
in his stead,
in Godot's stead,
when tired of rings of waiting smoke,
when not waiting anymore
you still wait
when your heart is listening to the echoes of time,
when father and mother and son
no longer existing
are tired of the elliptical cycles
of your waiting.

When comrades
have stopped singing
the anthems of the sun,
when the principle of evil
has exhausted itself
into the dawn of the new breed of truths,
wait then,
for I shall come,
dawning upon you,
too,
making good your losses,
refilling the bitter wine of your soul.

Let this soul now,
too tired to wait,
drink at the hearth
but not sit with the drinkers
and sup of their bread.

Wait, then.
Wait for me 
and I will surely come.
When death has failed to kill,
let the ones who have not waited
curse their luck.
Only he who knows how to wait,
will understand,
shall know another,
will be saved.

And you saved me too,
by waiting.
Our long wait
no other but only the two of us
shall understand
when atop Mount Moriah 
I shall wait for your sacrifice.
Only I will know
and you will wait.