"The thought of you vanishes..."

The thought of you vanishes

like an object in the rear view mirror,

as the woeful eye quickly varnishes

all that could bring me near you.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, you’ve become my idol,

and I stopped worshiping the man on the cross,--

if he really was Him, He would not stay idle,

understanding that I am at such a loss.

The pen crisscrosses the calendar with ardor,

but alas, time reaches farther than

any calendar and it’s becoming harder

to look up ahead rather than

looking back over the shoulder, where

the highway runs like an endless serpent,

where the mirror reflects your stare,

in which I appear (closer than I am) determined.