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Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.
Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it longs to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaks itself the language of love.
Light am I: ah, that I were night! But this is my lonesomeness, to be begirt with light!
Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I want to suck at the breasts of light!
And you yourselves I would bless, you twinkling starlets and glow-worms aloft!- and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.
But I live in my own light, I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me.
I know not the happiness of the receiver; and often, I have dreamt, that stealing must even be more blessed than receiving.
This is my poverty, that my hand never rests from giving; this is my envy, that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.
Oh, the misery of all givers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the craving to crave! Oh, the insatiable hunger in satiety!
They take from me: do I, however, still touch their souls? A gap exists between giving and receiving; and the smallest gap has to ultimately be closed.
A hunger arises out of my beauty: I want to hurt those I illumine, I want to rob from those I have gifted: -- thus do I hunger for malice.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand already reaches out for it; hesitating like the cascade that hesitates even in its descending: -- thus do I hunger for malice.
Such revenge does my abundance think of; such malice wells out of my lonesomeness.
My happiness in giving died in giving, my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!
He who always gives is in danger of losing his shame; to him who always gives, his hand and heart become callous by the constant act of dispensing.
My eyes no longer overflow for the shame of suppliants; my hand has become to hard for the trembling of filled hands.
Where have gone the tears of my eyes and the down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all givers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!
Many suns circle in empty space: to all that is dark, they speak with their light, -- to me, they are silent.
Oh, this is the hostility of light against the shining one, unpityingly, it pursues its course.
Unfair against the shining one in its innermost heart: cold to the suns, -- thus, every sun travels.
Like a storm, the suns pursue their courses, that is their travelling. They follow their relentless will, that is their coldness.
Oh, it is only you, you dark and nightly ones who extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, it is only you who drink milk and refreshment from the udders of light!
Ah, there is ice around me, my hand is burning from the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me, it is panting for your thirst!
'Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!
Tis night: now does my longing break forth in me as a fountain,- for speech do I long.
Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.
Thus sang Zarathustra.
Hometown
Utopia
Country
Germany
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