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!”
© George Tokarev. Translation, 2001
Edited by Robert Titterton