But I lay enchained to my love for my children: desire spread this snare for me- the desire for love- that I should become the prey of my children, and lose myself in them.
Desiring- that is now for me to have lost myself. I possess you, my children! In this possessing shall everything be assurance and nothing desire.
But brooding lay the sun of my love upon me, in his own juice stewed Zarathustra,- then did shadows and doubts fly past me.
For frost and winter I now longed: "Oh, that frost and winter would again make me crack and crunch!" sighed I:- then arose icy mist out of me.
My past burst its tomb, many pains buried alike woke up:- fully slept had they merely, concealed in corpse-clothes.
So called everything to me in signs: "It is time!" But I- heard not, until at last my abyss moved, and my thought bit me.
Ah, abysmal thought, which are my thought! When shall I find strength to hear you burrowing, and no longer tremble?
To my very throat throbs my heart when I hear them burrowing! your muteness even is like to strangle me, you abysmal mute one!
As yet have I never ventured to call you up; it has been enough that I- have carried you about with me! As yet have I not been strong enough for my final lion-wantonness and playfulness.
Sufficiently formidable to me has your weight ever been: but one day shall I yet find the strength and the lion's voice which will call you up!
When I shall have overcame myself therein, then will I overcome myself also in that which is greater; and a victory shall be the seal of my perfection!-
