Chapter 28 Song of the Night Part Two

Night has come: now the sound of the fountain is louder.And my soul is also a fountain. The night has come: now the lover's song wakes up.And my soul is also a lover's song. There is something in me that has never been calm, nor can it; it wants to cry out.There is a love longing in me that speaks the language of love. I am light: Oh, how I wish I were night!I am surrounded by light, and this is my solitude! Alas, I wish I were shadows and darkness!How would I quench my thirst on the breast of light! Twinkle little stars, worms of light in the sky, I wish to bless you, and be blessed by your gift of light.

But I live in my own light, and I suck back the flames that burst from me. I have never tasted the happiness of the taker; I have often dreamed that stealing should be sweeter than taking. My poverty is the ceaseless giving of my hands; my envy is the eyes of hope and the starry night of longing that I often see. O misfortune of the giver!Partial eclipse of my sun!O longing for longing!O great hunger in contentment! They take what I give: but do I touch their souls?Between giving and receiving, there is a deep valley; and the smallest valley is the last to be bridged. A kind of hunger occurs in my Miri.I want to hurt those whom I shine; I want to rob those whom I have given gifts:—thus I want to do evil.

I withdrew the hand I had stretched out, when another wanted to take my hand; I hesitated, like a rushing waterfall;--thus did I long to do evil! My abundance contemplates this vengeance; my solitude begets this malice. The happiness that I give dies by giving; my morality is weary of its own fullness! He who gives often is in danger of losing his shyness; for his heart and hands will at last be hardened by giving. My eyes no longer weep for the shame of the supplicant; the skin of my hands becomes hard, and I cannot feel the trembling of the hand of the recipient. Where are my tears and the tenderness of my heart?O the loneliness of the giver!O silence of the luminous!

Many suns orbit space: their light speaks to all that is dark. —but to me they are silent. Ah, this is the hatred of the light for everything else that shines: it goes on its way without mercy. Each sun is heartily unfair to all that shines; cruel to other suns:—so it goes on its way. The suns storm their way in: that is their journey.They follow their inexorable will: that is their ruthlessness. O only you, O creatures of the night, who have received your warmth from the light!O only you, drink the milk of consolation on the breast of light! Alas, the ice surrounds me; my hand burns at the touch of ice!Alas, I am thirsty, and my thirst is a thirst for your thirst!

Night has come: alas, why should I have to be light!And longing for darkness!And loneliness! Night has come: now my longing spouts like a fountain, - it will cry. Night has come: now the sound of the fountain is louder.And my soul is also a fountain. The night has come: now the lover's song wakes up.And my soul is also a lover's song. —— Thus spake Zarathustra.