I walked out of a deal, ah, what a fine deal it was!
I took nothing with me, left naked as a worm.
Not because I had to, but simply because it was time,
Other deals were beckoning in them yonder hills.

We learn so many things from printed books,
But truth, it only comes from someone’s mouth:
"No man is a prophet in his native land."
In other native lands they’re just as rare.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

They stripped me of everything, but I’m still happy
That the lion’s share went to those I would have rewarded.
I walk over a slippery floor, with rosin on my heels,
I climb a narrow staircase and reach the garret.

Gone are the prophets, there is no denying,
Mahomet ana Zarathustra left us long ago.
There are no prophets in my native land,
In other native lands they’re just as rare.

Downstairs they say - tor good or for bad, who knows?
"Good thing he quit, now the deal will go better."
I clear the cobwebs from the icons, I’m in a hurry:
Behind the house they’re saddling the horses.

The icon is before me, and there, face to face,
It offers me this clear and melancholy advice:
"No man is a prophet in his native land,
In other native lands they’re just as rare."

I leap into the saddle, body to horse’s body, as one,
The steed beneath me stumbles, the bit’s between my teeth.
I walked out of the deal, what a fine deal it was!
Other jobs were calling from beyond them hills.

I gallop, the stalks crunch beneath the hoofs,
But above the rustling I make out the words:
"No man is a prophet in his native land,
In other native lands they’re just as rare."