Major gods, a Baal, an El,
defeat the Powers of Chaos in a heroic battle

(they think)
and then carefully erect their fortress

on the highest mountain to be found.
And then they sit there content

and watch the smoke rising, straight up or less straight
from burn-beating, crematorium ovens and coffee-brewing.

The minor gods, the small fry,
lars, gnomes and the little clever grey ones,

dig away in the autumn roots of the old ash
and send strange fungi

up into the light of day. They are lazy, languid gods.

But they want to have a say as well.

Translated by John Irons