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.