There are no prophets in my own land,
And presently the conscience has forsaken it.
In place of him, no one is able to stand,
And one may hope to live without vexations.

But his voice rang and but his playing belled
In such a way that hearts and souls answered.
He often wore his fingers till they bled,
To force us to start mounting Jacob’s dancers.

He hasn’t told us all what with his beat throbbed
And sounded unrelievedly in his soul.
No wonder that his bleeding heart has stopped —
For many years he had no day to loaf.

Our bard won’t mount the platform any more,
So simple and in addition so adequately...
Has died he? Yes. However he performs,
And we live purposefully and discreetly.