It's gaming from the dark forests. The thud of blood
in the flower of Alaska.
It's discharging Pi into the lungs. That's how
the Moon was born, they say, and the art of bending
wicker into baskets.
They say it poured out of the ninth dimension into
ours, when God's palate cracked once.
This is why humans can love, they say.
It's liquidly mothering pensive souls,
the absence of thirst.
Translated from the Croatian by Mirza Puric