I walked out on a deal, though it showed such promise.
I took nothing! Bare-naked, I bid them adieu.
Not because I was itching to go, no! Other matters have surfaced,
Brought from beyond the mountain blue.

We learn from books, but in the end
All answers come with the wind a’ blowing.
There are no prophets in one’s homeland
But other homelands too aren’t overflowing.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

I’ve been torn apart, and, as always,
All the wrong people grabbed the lion’s share.
I am polishing floors with my heels, walking down the hallways,
Up the stairs, to the attic: something’s waiting there.

The prophets are gone! There’s nobody left!
Mohammed, Zarathustra aren’t showing...
There are no prophets in one’s homeland
But other homelands too aren’t overflowing.

Those who stayed behind, I can hear their wails:
“We are better off now! Good riddance! Let’s proceed!”
I’m scratching the dirt off an icon, breaking my nails.
In a hurry, because outside they are saddling steeds.

The Visage faced me, luminous and sad,
He spoke to me with his eyes glowing:
“There are no prophets in your homeland
But other homelands too aren’t overflowing.”

So I leap on a horse. I’ve now found my solace!
I’m one with the steed! We’ll go to the horizon and through!
I walked out on a deal that showed such promise!
Other matters arrived from beyond the blue.

I ride. The hooves crackle in the sand.
This sound tells the only truth worth knowing:
“There are no prophets in one’s homeland,
But other homelands too aren’t overflowing.”