THE NIGHT SONG

THE NIGHT SONG

IT IS NIGHT: NOW all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul too is a gushing fountain.

It is night: now only do all songs of lovers awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover.

Something unstilled, unstillable, is within me; it wants to speak out. A craving for love is within me, that itself speaks the language of love.

I am light: ah, that I were night! But it is my loneliness to be girded with light!

Ah, that I were dark and nocturnal! How I would suck at the breasts of light!

And I would bless you, you twinkling small stars and glowworms above!-and rejoice in your gifts of light.

But I live in my own light, I drink into myself again the flames that break forth from me.

I do not know the happiness of those who receive; and I have often dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.

It is my poverty that my hand never rests from giving; it is my envy that I see expectant eyes and the illumined nights of longing.

Oh the misery of all givers! Oh eclipse of my sun! Oh craving to crave! Oh ravenous hunger in satiety!

They take from me: but do I yet touch their souls? There is a gap between giving and receiving; and the smallest gap must finally be bridged.

A hunger grows out of my beauty: I should like to hurt those for whom I shine; I should like to rob those to whom I give-thus I hunger for malice.

Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretches out to it; hesitating like the waterfall that hesitates even in its plunge—thus I hunger for malice!

Such revenge does my abundance plot: such spite wells up out of my loneliness.

My happiness in giving died in giving, my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!

The danger of one who always gives is that he may lose his shame; the hand and heart of him who always distributes become callous by his very distributing.

My eye no longer overflows with the shame of suppliants; my hand has become too hard for the trembling of hands that have been filled.

Where have the tears of my eyes gone and the down of my heart? Oh the loneliness of all givers! Oh silence of all who bring light!

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 to what brings light, it travels its course pitilessly.

Unfair in its heart to all that shines, cold toward suns-thus travels every sun.

Like a storm the suns fly along their courses: that is their traveling. They follow their inexorable will: that is their coldness.

Oh, it is only you, you dark, nocturnal ones, that extract warmth from the shining! Oh, only you drink milk and refreshment from the udders of light!

Ah, there is ice around me, my hand is burned with ice! Ah, there is thirst in me, that pants after your thirst!

It is night: ah, that I must be light! And thirst for the nocturnal! And loneliness!

It is night: now my longing breaks forth in me as a well—I long for speech.

It is night: now all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul too is a gushing fountain.

It is night: now all songs of lovers awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover.—

Thus sang Zarathustra.