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.