I have quit my old job, such a fine one, things really were humming;
I did not gain a lot: I was poor, now I’m 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 prophet’s land.
In other lands there aren’t too many, either."

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

I have been pulled apart, but I’m glad that the full lion’s share
Was received by the folks who’d 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 there’s no demand
For Zoroasters, Mahomets, Isaiahs.
There are no prophets in a prophet’s land.
In other lands there aren’t too many, either.

People talking below - I don’t know if in kindness or malice:
"Just as well that he left - if he hadn’t things would have been worse."
I am tearing away cobwebs off ancient icons with my nails,
I must hurry because in the backyard they’re saddling my horse.

The image radiantly shone under my hand.
And sadly said to me the blessed Father:
"There are no prophets in a prophet’s land,
In other lands there aren’t too many either."

I leap into the saddle, I’m one with my steed, and he’s 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.

I’m galloping along an empty strand -
The wind seems to be singing to the rider:
"There are no prophets in a prophet’s land,
In other lands there aren’t too many, either."