Those are poles. Sky deltas. Gravitation into a fruit tree.
Those are wombs of peace, woven in the tree-crown language.
They say at night anomalies ripen
in the magnetic fields, you can hear the inflow
and the pulse of the vacuum,
remembrances of the dermis fade. Ten, they say,
nude girls from dark forests have come
and drunk each other’s tears.
Those, they say, are the daughters of Aleister Crowley,
goddesses of dreams
Translated from the Croatian by Mirza Puric