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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. 

© Jules Supervielle