I walked out of a deal though the business was quite advantageous;
I took nothing with me - I just quit of my own free will,
Not because I’m a freak - but because from the mountain ranges
I received with the wind a new call for a new, urgent deal.

Our life from books we learn and comprehend,
But Truth is often orally declared:
“There are no prophets in your native land,
Yet prophets overseas are just as rare!”

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

They at once grabbed my things - it’s OK, guys, I’m really happy!
I myself would have given away all the wealth that I had...
On a slippery floor I am walking, my high-boots a-clapping,
Then upstairs I rush, to the attic I go straight ahead.

Both Zoroaster and Mohammed met their end,
All former seers vanished in the air -
There are no prophets in your native land,
Yet prophets overseas are just as rare!

Downstairs they say - their words sound sort of poetic! -
“Good, he’s out of the deal, we are fed up with his frantic deeds!”
Dust and cobwebs I scrub off the icons they keep in the attic,
I must hasten because outside they are harnessing steeds.

One Saint revealed upon that icon-stand
And uttered sadly, almost in despair:
“There are no prophets in your native land,
Yet prophets overseas are just as rare!”

I jump onto my steed - our bodies are really merging,
But I know we’ll collapse - this mad gallop may certainly kill...
I walked out of a deal - this new call from the mountains is urging
Me away from the past - now I’m facing another new deal.

I gallop, grinding stalks of rye with sand,
And through that crunch I hear (I can swear!):
“There are no prophets in your native land,
Yet prophets overseas are just as rare!”