That's a shell. A division. Crop circles.
Over there, they say, the first dream cub took
first steps, said first words into itself 13 times,
thus arose firstfruitship. Escalated into
open arms, embraced. Disexisted.
There, they say, between two lives, lives a shepherd
who drives away his sheep every morning.
Then at night he cries, goes looking for them,
and each lost sheep
becomes a rice paddy in one of the lives.
So it feeds.
Translated from the Croatian by Mirza Puric