Prophecy

Jules Supervielle

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.