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I abandoned my deal, though the business was quite advantageous;
Having taken no one thing, I left it of my own free will —
Not because I’m a freak, but because from the blue mountain ranges,
I received with the wind a new call for a new urgent deal.
From books, a mass of things we understand,
But what’s topmost is orally declared,
“There are no prophets in one’s own land,
But prophets overseas are just as rare.”
They at once grabbed my things, but I’m glad that the full lion’s share
Was received by the persons, who’d have gotten it from me anyway.
Now I’m walking along, up the creaking, precipitous stairs,
To the derelict cockloft, where they very rarely stray.
There are no prophets for to come to hand;
In days of yore, they vanished in the air.
There are no prophets in one’s own land,
But prophets overseas are just as rare.
Downstairs they say — with benevolence or malice, I know not,
“It’s so good he’s away, we’re quite fed up with his frantic deeds!”
While I scrape a cobweb from the icons I got in the cockloft,
I must hurry because in the backyard my comrades saddle steeds.
In front of Jesus’ shining face I stand,
He says to me about his despair,
“There are no prophets in thy own land,
But prophets overseas are just as rare.”
I jump onto my steed, our bodies are perfectly merging,
But I feel we’ll collapse — such a gallop may certainly kill.
I abandoned my deal — this new call from the ranges is urging
Me away from the past, now I’m facing a new urgent deal.
I gallop, grinding stalks of rye with sand,
And through the crunch it sounds, I can swear,
“There are no prophets in one’s own land,
But prophets overseas are just as rare.”
1973.
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