148 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II
Many suns circle round in empty space : unto all that is dark they speak with their light, unto me they are silent.
Oh, that is the enmity of light against what shineth ! Without pity it wandereth on its course.
Unfair towards what shineth in the heart of its heart, cold towards suns, thus walketh every sun.
Like the storm the suns fly on their courses ; that is their walking. They follow their inexorable will ; that is their coldness.
Oh, it is only ye, ye dark ones, ye of the night who create warmth out of what shineth ! Oh, it is only ye who drink milk and refreshment from the udders of light !
Alas, there is ice round me, my hand burneth it- self when touching what is icy ! Alas, there is thirst within me that is thirsty for your thirst!
Night it is : alas, that I must be a light ! And a thirst for what is of the night ! And solitude !
Night it is : now, like a well, my longing breaketh forth from me. I am longing for speech.
Night it is : now talk louder all springing wells. And my soul is a springing well.
Night it is : only now all songs of the loving awake. And my soul is the song of a loving one."
Thus sang Zarathustra.
�� �
