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.