Ernesto Priego's poem is a tiny piece of advice, spoken the way you might talk to a friend who is wound up. "Tranquilo" is Spanish for "calm down" or "take it easy," and the speaker follows it with a reminder from geometry: parallel lines never meet, except that, in one way of picturing space, they do, far off in the infinite.
The comfort here is gentle and a little odd. The speaker doesn't promise that things will work out soon. Whatever keeps two people, or two situations, apart may only come together a very long way off. That can sound hopeful, or it can sound faintly wry, since "infinity" is hardly a deadline anyone can plan around.
The title, "Marco's Sunday Roast," suggests an ordinary domestic scene, so the poem may be easing some tension there, though the text doesn't say. The mood is relaxed, patient, and quietly playful: a small joke that also works as reassurance.