The Letters

I
Can you hear the leaves as they fall
as they hit the ground with a thump
the stomach, teeth, legs, and heads
falling from the branches

of language that can no longer hold them
the curling loops undone
in that Hell, the trees’ leaves sharp blades
cutting mercilessly every Word

which lie there on the ground bleeding
the severed legs, stomach, teeth and heads
that when assembled looked so alive
the Gods gathered above in the sky

II
of the manuscript, gathered there
like a storm, the same word repeated
burqan burqan burqan
God covers you, wraps you all up in edicts

and robes, with two tiny slits for your eyes
and the words hanging down from the tree
like the robes handed down by your mother
the manuscript you could not read

because the letters went the wrong way
like stakes driven into the ground
the words lay there mute, already buried,
pronounced dead, must be given funeral rites —

III
even more elaborate than for the highest priest
or maybe as nourishment for the fire
above is God with his bamboo pen
writing on cheap Russian paper

because even He couldn’t tell what he had to buy
when at the market, the paper made from rice,
paper is paper, He thought, and made His offer
the world is not a sheet of paper

but the gods are gathered there up there like a cloud
like a storm when it’s said that their voice is heard
the letters following to the ground
the Wrath of the Lord raining down

Ottilie Mulzet translates from Hungarian and Mongolian. She is currently completing a PhD on the subject of Mongolian riddles and proverbs. Her artwork, prose, and photography have appeared in the Prague-based journal Revolver Revue since 2000.