him who ever dispenses, the hand and heart become callous by very dispensing.
My eye no longer overflows for the shame of suppliants; my hand has become too hard for the trembling of filled hands.
Whence have gone the tears of my eye, and the down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all givers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!
Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with their light- but to me they are silent.
Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: unpityingly does it pursue its course.
Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the suns:- thus travels every sun.
Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses: that is their travelling. Their inexorable will do they follow: that is their coldness.
Oh, you only is it, you dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, you only drink milk and refreshment from the light's udders!
Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burns with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me; it pants after your thirst!
'Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!
'Tis night: now do my longing break forth in me as a fountain,- for speech do I long.
'Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
'Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.-
Thus sang Zarathustra.
