I have quit my old job, such a fine one, things really were humming; I did not gain a lot: I was poor, now Iím poorer still. It was not just a whim - I had seen it for quite a while coming, Other jobs, other griefs rolling on from behind the blue hill. Some things are pretty hard to understand. By word of mouth passed from one to another: "There are no prophets in a prophetís land. In other lands there arenít too many, either."
               
I have been pulled apart, but Iím glad that the full lionís share Was received by the folks whoíd have got it from me anyway. I am shuffling along, up the slippery, steep, rotten stairs, To a tiny old garret where few people, if ever, stray. No prophets now - perhaps thereís no demand For Zoroasters, Mahomets, Isaiahs. There are no prophets in a prophetís land. In other lands there arenít too many, either. People talking below - I donít know if in kindness or malice: "Just as well that he left - if he hadnít things would have been worse." I am tearing away cobwebs off ancient icons with my nails, I must hurry because in the backyard theyíre saddling my horse. The image radiantly shone under my hand. And sadly said to me the blessed Father: "There are no prophets in a prophetís land, In other lands there arenít too many either." I leap into the saddle, Iím one with my steed, and heís spuming, He is rearing to go, and I give him his head with a will. I have quit my old job, such a fine one - but I saw it coming: Other jobs, other griefs rolling on from behind the blue hill. Iím galloping along an empty strand - The wind seems to be singing to the rider: "There are no prophets in a prophetís land, In other lands there arenít too many, either."
© Sergei Roy. Translation, 1990