Then the wait is actually a pause.
It will end in the longer wait of miniscule moments.
It holds on a hellish fire but it is love.
The wait, I mean macabre love in torrents of rain.
Clouds burst in whiplash of importunate thoughts of this wait.
Even trees respond to the call (of wait)
as saturnine sun tanned hills whisper history of ancient rocks,
monoliths and wait of centuries fashioned in folk tales, myths and legends.
Of wait.
