Prophecy

One day the Earth will be   

just a blind space turning,   

night confused with day.   

Under the vast Andean sky   

there’ll be no more mountains,   

not a rock or ravine.   

Only one balcony will remain   

of all the world’s buildings,   

and of the human mappa mundi,   

limitless sorrow.   

In place of the Atlantic Ocean,   

a little saltiness in the air,   

and a fish, flying and magical   

with no knowledge of the sea.   

In a car of the 1900s (no road   

for its wheels) three girls   

of that time, pressing onwards   

like ghosts in the fog.   

They’ll peer through the door   

thinking they’re nearing Paris   

when the odor of the sky   

grips them by the throat.   

Instead of a forest   

there’ll be one bird singing,   

which nobody will ever place,   

or prefer, or even hear.   

Except for God, who listening out,   

proclaims it a goldfinch.