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The Dionysus Dithyrambs

Here, translated from Nietzsche's German originals, are the so-called "Dionysus Dithyrambs". These were first published in 1892, and together they formed a work of poetry that was an auxiliary addition to Nietzsche's book, "Thus Spake Zarathustra".

Contents of this page:

  • The Fire-Signal

    Spoken by Zarathustra, it reflects on the necessity for him to spread his doctrines and to lead others. The people whom he shall lead are the people with a predisposition towards becoming higher men.

  • Last Will

    Spoken by Zarathustra, it speaks of the inspiration that is excited in others when one martyrs oneself in support of a noble cause.

  • The Sun Sinks, Horizon-Wise

    Spoken by Zarathustra, it employs the metaphor of evening to present an abrupt, full, mysterious and relaxing gratification of the individual. But Zarathustra cannot succumb to shallow, uncaring pleasure. Everything is muted, faded, and fading. This compensates for Zarathustra's overexertion. It is Nature's response to him. Also mentioned is Zarathustra's word and message, his bestowed gift on humanity; a gift that continues to grow and multiply, even while he's relaxed.

  • Ariadne's Lament

    Spoken by the magician during such time as the duration wherein he acted to assume the demeanour of a religious zealot, it is an enticement of the individual away from their human independence and towards a slavelike belief in God, with the lure being that they are alone, despondent and forsaken without the harsh nihilist comfort of God.

  • Amongst Daughters of the Desert

    Spoken by the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra's shadow, it discusses inner feelings of futility, and the consequent desire for love and lust that would provide an oasis to quell and soothe the underlying depression.

  • Amidst Birds of Prey

    Spoken by Zarathustra, it reflects upon Zarathustra's abysmal thought—that is to say, his shameful nihilistic tendencies. Zarathustra, in opposing nihilism with such intensity, has himself gained some nihilistic tendencies: subtly, insidiously.

  • Fame and Eternity

    Zarathustra feels wrathful because of the shallowness of fame. He wants to be a true prophet, rather than an individual glorified and hailed superficially as though they were a prophet. Thus he gazes beyond, to eternity.

  • Merely fool! Merely poet!

    Spoken by the magician, it is a lure towards nihilism and towards violent malevolent hatred. The higher men are baited by their disappointment at having had great difficulty in ascending towards the Superman.

  • The Paucity-Impoverishment of the Richest Ones

    Similar to Zarathustra's first descension from his mountain home at the age of forty, it is his acknowledgement that he has now enough wisdom to make further-wisdom seeking an inferior alternative to going forth amongst mankind and spreading his existing wisdom. For not only is it good for he, the individual, to be wise; but also, for true consummation, humanity requires the benefit, collective benefit, of the audacious new existentialist wisdom.


The Fire-Signal

In this location, where an isle arose betwixt the seas,
Altar of stone, piled up steeply,
Here beneath blackened sky,
Zarathustra ignited a fire of the mountain,
The beacon for mariners who were impelled awry at sea,
The question-mark broadcasting to those for whom the answer-supply is depleted-possession.

This fire has a white-grey abdomen—
Flickering avaricious tongue, into the ice elsewhere,
Insinuating its bend-neck into purer, lucider heights—
An erect serpent of restlessness:
This signal placed I out before me.

My soul is this flame,
Insatiable, newborn expanses seeking;
To explode upwards, upwards in silenced fiery-passion.
Why did Zarathustra escape animals and men?
Why did he abruptly flee from all civilised geography?
With SIX lonesome-solitudes thus far aquainted—
But sea not lonesome enough,
Via island he ascended, atop mountain he transformed in flame,
Into a SEVENTH lonesome-solitude,
Now a-spying, a fishing-hook sails from his hand, and over his head.

Betrayed mariners! Titanic ruins of archeological stars!
You future-oceans! Chasms of unknown sky!
Right now I cast my fishing-hook at all solitary people:
Provide me solution to the restlessness of the fire,
Catch me, you fisherman sitting on a high mountain,
My seventh FINAL solitude!— —


Last Will

To thus die,
As I witnessed him die:
The friend who cast deified thunderbolts and
Glances into my dark youth.
Athletic and profound,
A square-dancer in the war:

The most exuberant warrior,
The sombre, introspective victor,
A destiny stood upon his destiny,
Withstanding, rebounding, and computing:

Shivering BECAUSE he was redeemed,
Immensely joyous, and redeemed IN DEATH:

Commanding even while the life escaped him,
He commanded that someone must DESTROY.

To thus die,
As I witnessed him die,
Where the enemy's chosen flags drew near us,
Him,
He was vanquishing, DESTROYING.


The Sun Sinks, Horizon-wise

For no further prolonged time-span shall you thirst,
Scorched heart!
A promise holds the atmosphere,
Wind-blowing to me from enigmatic mouths—
An immense air-coolness is here.

My sun towered blazingly above me during noon:
I ingratiate you, you who arrive
As immediate atmospheric-winds—
You cooled spirits of the afternoon!

The air rushes past, wild and pure.
But won't night furtively cast an
Alien seductive-glance
Towards me?—
Maintain strength, courageous heart mine!
Ask not: why?—

Day of my life!
The sun sinks, horizon-wise.
Even now, the tranquil ascending tide
Resides gilded.
The rock breathes warmth:
Does mirth slumber till noon
In its midday sleepiness?
In neon-green lights
Mirth still flickers over the sepia abyss.

Day of my life!
And to evening it travels!
Even now, your eye gleams,
Eyelids semi-open.
Even now, your dew flows upwards,
Dew-formed teardrops,
Silent currents already traversing the pale-white ocean:
Your crimson-hued ardency,
Your ultimate subtle desire:—

Golden serenity, I invite you!
You accursed,
Concealed, besweetened augur of happiness!
Did I haste prematurely along my pathway?
Right now, as my foot becomes tired,
Your glance reaches level with me,
Your bliss-mirth reaches level with me.

Surrounding me only sea-waves and sea-playfulness.
Anything that was hard,
Sank into blue unconsciousness,
Now my boat rests purposelessly.
Storms and journeys—how they're gone from memory!
Passions and aims are drowned,
Tranquillised are the soul and the ocean.

SEVENTH lonesome-solitude!
I have never felt myself
Closer to placid security,
In the slow-warming gaze of the sun.—
Is not my icy mountain-summit still burning-hot?
Silver-scaled, buoyant, a fish,
Currently, my bark swims on outwards.


Ariadne's Lament

Who warms me, who loves me still?
Give fingers ablaze!
Heat, charcoal-wise, the heart!
Prone, trembling
Like a half-dead man whose feet are then warmed:
And shaken now, by unfamiliar fevers,
Shivering with sharp frost-arrows, glacial,
By you pursued, delusion!
Unspeakable! Shrouded! Terrifying!
You hunter behind the cloud-banks!
Now struck by lightning cast by you,
Scornful eye, glowering at me from the dark,
Thus do I lie,
Convoluted, twisted, tortured,
With all the eternal heart-stress,
Smitten,
By you, cruellest huntsman,
You unfamiliar—GOD...

Smite deeper!
Smite once again!
Stab my heart and rend it!
For what purpose this perdition?
With dull-blunted arrows?
You gaze towards me, why,
Unweary of this human pain,
With flash-lightning godly-glances?
You will not murder,
But torture, torture?
For why—ME torture,
You spiteful, unknown god?

Aha!
You shuffle near
At midnight?...
What do you want?
Speak!
You crowd me, press against me—
Already much too closely!
You hear me breathing,
You overhear my heart,
You always-jealous one!
Of what are you so jealous?
Get off, go away!
What purpose must the ladder serve?
Would you get in,
Clamber into my heart,
And enter
My withheld thoughts, secret?
You shameless one! Unknown one! Thief!
What seek you by burgling?
What seek you by spy-listening?
What seek you by harsh-torturing?
You torturer!
You—hangman-god!
Or shall I, as the dogs do,
Roll down before you?
Slave-like, frantical,
Myself servile towards you?

In vain!
It goads again!
Cruel goader!
Not a dog, but your prey, am I,
Cruellest huntsman!
Your proudest captive,
You robber behind the cloud-banks.
Speak, finally!
Lightning-veiled one! Unknown one! Speak!
What do you want, highway-robber, from me?
What?
A ransom?
How much, in the way of ransom?
Demand much—my pride would like you to!
And be concise—my pride wants that also!

But, aha!
You want me, want ME?
Me entirely?...

Aha!
And tormenting me, fool that you are,
You wrack my pride?
Give me love—who warms me still?
Who loves me still?
Give fingers ablaze!
Heat, charcoal-wise, the heart!
Give me, the lonesome, loneliest one,
The ice! Sevenfold frozen ice,
For very enemies, makes me yearn and thirst.
Give, yield to me,
Cruellest enemy—
—YOURSELF!—

Away!
He has gone,
My final comrade,
Best antagonist,
My unknown,
Hangman-god!

No!
Return!
WITH all your harsh-torturing!
All my hot tears flow forth,
Towards, aimed towards you.
And all my extinguishing fire of heart,
Glows up towards you.
Oh, return,
My unknown god! my PAIN!
My final bliss!

(A lightning-bolt is cast; Dionysus appears, in emerald beauty.)

"You are clever, Ariadne!
"You have diminutive ears; you have MY ears:
"Into them place a clever statement!—
"Must one not first hate oneself, if one intends to love oneself?—
"I AM YOUR LABYRINTH.—"


Amongst Daughters of the Desert

THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM IN WHOM THE DESERTS HIDE!

Ha!
Solemnly!
Quite effectively solemnly!
A worthy beginning!
With African-style, solemnly.
Worthy of a lion,
Or of howling virtuous monkey.
—But it's naught to you,
You dearest-most maidens,
At whose feet I,
A European beneath palm-tree shade
Am now granted seat. Selah.

Fidelitrously wonderful!
Here do I now sit,
Near to the desert, but still yet
So far away from the desert, look again:
And not-at-all, no-way desolate.
As it happens, currently down-gulped
By this diminutivest oasis—
It just then opened yawningly,
Its lovely loveliest mouth agape,
The most scented, pleasant, of all belittled mouths:
Then fell I in,
Through-down, in amongst you,
You maidens, dearly-most beloved. Selah.

Hail, hail to that whale, fishlike,
If allowed by him were his guests to be such
Good comfort under! (Surely you redeem
This learned allusion?)—
Hail to his belly,
If it was as
Charming an oasis-belly
As this is: yet I, the doubter, call it in question.
With this come I indeed out of old Europe,
That doubts with more eagerness than any wife, elderly, doubts.
But may God improve it!
Amen!

Here do I now sit,
In this, the smallest oasis,
Like a date,
Brown and sugar-sweet, gold-suppurating,
Lusting for the circular girl-mouth
But even more for the girlish
Incisory, white-as-snow, cold-as-ice
Teeth-that-bite: for after those,
The hearts of all heated-dates must lust. Selah.

Similar, all too similar,
To the aforesaid Mediterranean fruit,
Do I lie here, and with tiny
Winged beetles
Spriting about and whizzing about:
Just like even more-pettier,
Foolisher, even sinfuller,
Wishes and phantasies—
Surrounded by you,
You silent, you apocalyptic
Girl-kittens
Dudu and Suleika—
ROUNDSPHINXED, that I may compress gigantic
Feeling-quantities within one word
(—May God forgive me
This sin of speechly-data-compression!)—
Here do I now sit, sniffing the best air,
Paradisal air, truly,
Limpid, transparent air, striped with gold,
As goodly air as ever
From lunar-orb downfell,
Be it by chance
Or supervened it by arrogancy?
As the ancient poets relate it.
But doubter, I, am now calling it in question.
With this come I
Indeed out of Europe
That doubts more than any old-wife, elderly.
May the Lord God improve it!
Amen!

Drinking, gulping, fair, fair air,
My nostrils out-swollen, like goblets,
Without future, without memories,
Thus I restingly sit here, you
Fairest maidens, dearly loved:
And I watch the palm-tree,
It is like a dancer as it
Bends and twists and oscillates at the haunches—
One does it too, if one views it long.
Like a dancer, who, as it seems to me,
Has prolongedly stood, dangerously prolonged duration
Always, but always on one little-leg only?
But she has forgotten, thus it seems to me,
Her opposite leg?
At least in vain
Did I seek the missing
Treasure-jewel
—Namely, that other leg—
In the sacred geographic-locality
Of her loved-most, delicatest-most
Paper-fanned, fluttering, sequinned-attire.
Affirmation, if you would, fair maidens, you
Quite believe me,
She has LOST it.

Do not want! Exclamation! Explosion of concern!
It's gone now,
Forever gone,
That other leg!
Shamefulness, harrassed, concerning that lovely opposite-leg!
Where now, does it in abandonedness sorrow:
That lonely leg?
Perhaps harsh-terrored by a
Seriously yellow, blonde-curl-maned
Leonine-monster? Or maybe even was it
Gnawed off, nibbled away—
Pitiful-bad, alas, alas! Nibbled away! Selah.

Argh, don't weep,
Tender hearts!
Cry-weep not, you
Date-hearts! Milk-bosoms!
You sweet-licorice-
Heart-sacks!
Be a man, Suleika! Courageous! Bold!
Weep no more,
Pallid Dudu!—
Or should perhaps
Something more fortifying
Here be neededly-appropriate?
An anointed proverb?
A solemn exhortation?

Ha! Get up, dignity!
Blow, blow again,
Bellows of virtue!
Ha!
Once more roar,
Morally roar,
Roar like an ethical lion, before the daughters of the desert!
—For virtuous howling,
You beloved maidens,
Is more than anything
European fervour, European hot-hunger!
And yet here do I stand,
As a European myself,
I cannot do otherwise, God help me!
Amen!

THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM IN WHOM THE DESERTS HIDE!
Stone grinds against stone, the desert ingests and strangles,
Glowing brown mutant death stares
And CHEWS; its life is to chew.

DO NOT FORGET, MAN, ENGULFED BY DESIRE:
YOU—ARE THE STONE, ARE THE DESERT, ARE DEATH.


Amidst Birds of Prey

Whoever's inclined to travel down here,
How very rapidly
The depths shall swallow them down!—
But you, Zarathustra,
Continue to love the abyss—
Do you love it, just, like, as, the SPRUCE?

Its roots shoot downwards, to where
The massive stone quakes
Gazing down into the depths—
It tarries at abysses,
Where all surrounds
Are inclined to topple:
Within the impatience
Of the rugged boulders and cold-muscular water-torrents
Patiently withstanding, solid, without noise,
Alone.

Alone!
Who should even endeavour
To be invited here,
To be invited by YOU?

A bird of prey, maybe:
who'd probably hang,
The enduring long-time-spanning leper,
Rejoicing enthusiastically through its coating:
With insane laughing,
Laughter of bird of prey.—

WHY so enduring?—
Sadistically, it repudiates:
One must have wings, if one loves the abyss:
Must not continue suspended,
Like you, suspended individual!

Oh Zarathustra,
Greatestly sadistic Nimrodian-hunter-killer!
But of late you remained the hunter of God,
The snare of all virtue,
And the arrow-spear of badness!
Now—
Hunted by yourself,
Your own prey,
Bored into yourself.

Now—
Solitary, only yourself for company,
Twain in the knowledge you possess,
In the midst of a century of reflections
Set before yourself, you are insincere,
In the midst of one century of suspect memories,
Memories,
Tired from every injury,
Frozen by every ice,
Neck-strangled by the rope-noose that you tied,
YOUR OWN AUTO-KNOWER!
YOUR OWN AUTO-HANGMAN!

Wherefore was it that you were bound
With your wisdom's locking-rope?
Wherefore was it you tantalised yourself
Into the paradise of prehistoric dragon?
Wherefore crawled you into your own self
In YOU—INTO YOU?

Now you are an invalid,
And sick from the serpent's poison;
Now you are a prisoner,
And have drawn the hardest lot:
In your shaft
Working with stooped posture
Digging dirt-rocks from yourself,
Excavating in yourself,
Without aid,
Rigid
And dead—
Buried by one hundred burdens,
By your superburdens,
One who IS KNOWING!
Yourself an AUTO-KNOWER!
The WISE Zarathustra!

You sought the weightiest burden
And located YOURSELF—
You cannot dispel yourself-the-reflexive.

Hiding,
Stooped,
One who of late doesn't stand upright!
You're deeply entangled in your grave,
TANGLED spirit!

But still yet recently so proud,
Atop all of your stilt-raised pride!
And of late, remaining—the atheist anchorite,
The room-mate with Satan,
Brightly-saturated-red prince, whose reign stands o'er arrogancy!

Now—
Betwixt duo-voids,
You're one who has been twisted,
A question-mark,
A energy-sapped puzzle—
A puzzle for BIRDS OF PREY.

They'll definitely disintegrate you,
Undoubtedly they starve towards your disintegration,
Indeed they flappingly-flutter around you, their puzzle,
Around you, hanged man!
Oh Zarathustra!
YOUR OWN AUTO-KNOWER!
YOUR OWN AUTO-HANGMAN!


Fame and Eternity

For how long will you sit waiting
On misfortune?—
Caution! Even now you hatch me,
Egg, another egg,
A basilisk's snake-egg,
Hatched out of prolonged misery.

Why did Zarathustra steal quietly along the mountains?—

Distrustful, afflicted with ulcers, morose,
One, tediously, who lies in wait—
But now suddenly, lightning,
Now bright, terrible now, explodes
Heavenwards now, from abyss:
The mountains themselves pulsate from
The bowels of earth,—earth-bowels:

Where hatred, and the flash of lightning,
Are as one, a CURSE—
Zarathustra's wrath obliquely lacerates the mountainside,
A storm-cloud steals in darkness forth through sky-path grey.

Steal away, one whose finality finds hiding-cover!
Get into your bed, you puny, shrouded individual!
Currently wheeling thunder-vortices atop the vaults,
Then oscillating, as the beams and the walls,
Then unsteady lightning, and with truths sulphur-yellow,—
Zarathustra CURSES...

This coin, which,
The entire world employs as currency,
FAME—
I grab this coin gloved-handed,
Disgustedly, I trample it BENEATH my feet.

Who should desire recompense provided?
Those who are for sale:
Whoever is FOR SALE, jumps to seize
With hands glue-adhering
All of the world's coin-jingling fame!

—You WANT to make the purchase?
They're all for sale.
But offer large money-quantities!
Jingle with a coffer heavy!
—Otherwise you FORTIFY them,
Their VIRTUE is fortified:

They, all, virtue-virtuousness have.
Famousness and virtuousness—it rhymes, that.
As long as the world lives on,
That world pays prattling talk-virtue
With the rattling of fame—
The world SUBSISTS, this noise upon.

Standing before virtuous soldiers,
I want to find guilt,
Me, deemed guilty of all great offences!
Before each fame-trumpet,
My ambition, wormlied, wormified—
Standing among those whom I should desire,
To be the LOWEST...

This coin, which,
The entire world employs as currency,
FAME—
I grab this coin gloved-handed,
Disgustedly, I trample it BENEATH my feet.

Quieten down now!—
From great things coming—I SEE, quantity-wise, very much!—
One should retain silence,
Or utter great things:
Greatly speak, my delightful wisdom!

Up there I view presently—
Wave-cascading seas of light:
—Oh night, oh night-silence, oh silently-morbid uproar! Truly...

I view a sign—
From the distant beyond-world,
A glittering, sparkling constellation sinks,
Solemnly, silently, upon me, towards me:

Supreme star, star-of-existence!
Tablet of eternal shape-forms!
You arrive in my direction?—
Why has no-one ever seen,
Your tranquil serene-star—
And why doesn't it pass me by?

Sign demonstrating necessity!
Tablet of eternal shape-forms!
—But obviously, this you know:
What everyone despises,
What only _I_ love,
But you, you're ETERNAL!
And are NECESSARY!
My love, fierily-ignited,
Is set blazing necessarily-only.

Sign demonstrating necessity!
Supreme star, star-of-existence!
You, attained by no desire,
Not desecrated by denial,
Profound affirmation, eternal being,
Eternally, I, you, affirm:
FOR I LOVE YOU, OH ETERNITY!— —


Merely fool! Merely poet!

In evening's dark'ning illuminations
When the dew's consolations commence,
Surging down to the Earth,
Invisibly and also unheard—
Because the apprehending-sympathetic dew shall walk with
Tender shoe-gear, like all that is kind-gentle—:
Recall you then, burning heart, think
How once you thirsted
For heaven's teardrops and its drops of dew,
All singed and weary, yet thirsting
Momentarily on yellow grass-pathways.
Wicked, occidental sunny glances
Through sombre trees about you sported
Blindingly sunny glow-glances, gladly-hurting?

"Of TRUTH the wooer?—you?"—so they taunted me—
"No! Merely poet!
A brute insidious, plundering, grovelling,
That, yes, must lie.—
That wittingly, wilfully, yes, must lie:
For booty lusting,
Motley masked,
Self-hidden, shrouded,
Himself his booty,
HE—the wooer of truth?
No! Mere fool! Mere poet!
Just motley speaking,
From mask of fool confusedly shouting,
Circumambling on fabricated word-bridges,
On motley rainbow-arches
And between the spurious heavenly,
Round us roving, round us loitering—
Mere fool, mere poet!

HE—the wooer of truth?
Not still, stiff, smooth and cold,
Become an image,
A godlike statue,
Not set up in front of temples,
As a god's own door-guard:
No! But hostile to all such truthfulness-statues,
In every desert more at home than at religious temples—
With cat-like wantonness,
Through every window leaping
Quickly into chances.
Every wild-forest nose-sniffing,
That you, in wild-forests,
Amongst the colour-noise-speckled fierce creatures,
Should rove, sinfully-sound and fine-coloured:
With longing, lusting lips,
Blisfully mocking, blissfully hellish, blissfully bloodthirsty,
Robbing, skulking, lying—roving:—

Or like eagles that, over long time-spans,
Prolongedly look adown the precipice,
Down THEIR precipice:—
Oh, how they whirl down now,
Thereunder, therein,
To ever deeper profoundness whirling!—
Then,
Suddenly,
Plummeting directly down,
Wings extended,
On LAMBS pouncing!
Right down, sore-hungry,
Lusting for lambs,
Fierce against all lamb-spirits,
Furious-fierce to whatever looks
Sheeplike, sheepish, crisply-woolled,
—Grey, with lambsheep's milk-goodwill!

Even thus,
Eagle-like, panther-like,
The poet's desires are:
YOUR OWN desires are, under a thousand disguises.
You fool, you poet!

You who have viewed all mankind
As god, as sheep—:
To REND the god within mankind,
And also the sheep in mankind,
Yet while rending, LAUGHING—

THAT, THAT is your blessedness!
Of the panther and eagle, blessedness!
Of a poet and a fool, blessedness!

In evening's dark'ning illuminations,
When the moon's knife-lacerations
Between green and glowing purple
Envious, jealous, steal forth:
Enemy of day,
With every footstep secret,
The rose-garland hammocks
Blade-hacking, until they have sunken
Down to night, pale-bad, sunk down:—

Thus once I had sunk
From my truth-insanity
From my own day-longings
Weary of day, sick of the sun,
—Sunk downwards, evenwards, shadowwards:
By one solitary truth
Scorched and thirsty:
Recall you then, think, burning heart
How you once thirsted?—
THAT I SHOULD BANNED BE
FROM ALL THE TRUENESS!
MERE FOOL!
MERE POET!


The Paucity-Impoverishment of the Richest Ones

For a duration of ten years—
No raindrop has reached me,
Humid wind absent, dew of love gone—
A land that is quite RAINLESS—
Now I beseech of wisdom mine,
Not to stingily seethe in this drought:
Trickling dew, liquidly flow from me,
My rain, rain down, for the yellow-scorched desert!

Once did I command the clouds,
To depart from above the mountains—
Once spoke I, "Provide light, for my shady places, your shadiness!"
Today, I entice them here:
Provide me shade with your milk-udders!—
Udders that I now should milk,
You cows on high!
Milkwarm wisdom, dew-sweet love-drops,
Over the land I pour.

Dispel, dispel, away, truths,
That gloomily, over you, watch!
I don't want to see my mountains gloomed,
And taken by bitter, impetuous truths.
Today, here, truth approaches,
Meeting me with gilded grin,
Sunnily sweetened, lovingly-bronzed,—
From the tree I pull only a RIPE truth.

Today stretch I out my reach-hand,
To the winding curls of chance,
Clever enough,
To treat chance condescendingly, like it were a child, and fox-chase it.
Today I should be quite welcoming,
To the inhospitable,
I don't even sharp myself up, against coming destiny—
Zarathustra is no hedgehog.

My soul,
Tongued-up with huge-greed,
Licked already good and bad things,
Diving down to depths a-many,
But always, as but a cork,
To the top it floats again,
Shimmering oilily over brown oceans:
On this soul's account, I am called the happy one.

Who are my parents, father and mother?
My father, isn't he the prince of superabundance,
With my mother being laughter of tranquility?
And in marriage-bond, these two, didn't they create
Me, enigmatic animal,
Me, hostile light,
Me, wisdom-prodigal, Zarathustra?

Ailment caught today from tenderness,
A thawing blow-wind arises,
Zarathustra sits, waiting, in his mountains—
In his own juice,
Sweet and stewed,
BENEATH his summit,
BENEATH his ice,
Lazy, tired and blissful,
A creator seventh-day discov'ring.

Quieten down, now,
A truth sails now over me,
Like a cloud—
It strikes me, now, with unseen lightning,
Its bliss ponderously ascends,
Towards me by way of broad stair-case:
Come to me, beloved truth!

Hush!
It is MY truth!
From hesitating eyes,
From velvet qualms,
Its glance hits me,
Charming, demonic, the glance of a girl...
Located she the FOUNDATION of happiness mine,
She found ME!—so, how did she determine this?—
A red-gleaming dragon lurks,
Within the abyss of her girly glancing.

Quieten down! Let my truth SPEAK!—

Affectionate you, man Zarathustra!
You appear as someone,
Who has swallowed gold:
One day they must knife open your belly! Awake...

Your wealth's excessive,
Corruptor of masses!
You causer of envy,
You cause also poverty.
Cast into shadow, your light shall inflict—
I tremble: depart, hence, wealthy one,
Go, Zarathustra, away from your sun! Travel...

You want to bestow your superabundance,
This makes you the superfluous one!
Be dice-clever, you rich prophet!
FIRST SACRIFICE AND BESTOW YOURSELF, oh Zarathustra!

Ten years have passed—
And no drop has reached you?
No wind-heavy mist? no love-dew?
But who OUGHT to love you as well,
Over-wealthy one?—
Your happiness creates nothing but desert,
Makes love arid, dearthful, scarce,
A RAINLESS land...

Self-sacrificing, your wealth TORMENTS you,
You bestow—your own self,
Taking no care of yourself, you don't love yourself;
Agony constantly compels you,
The agony of an OVERFLOWING barn, an OVERABUNDANT heart;
But nobody gives you thanks, no more...

You must now gain POVERTY,
Unwise in your very wisdom!
Wish you now to receive love.
One loves but the sufferer.
One loves only the hungry man:
FIRST SACRIFICE AND BESTOW YOURSELF, oh Zarathustra!

—I am your truth...

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