On the Poverty of the Richest

For ten years now —
No drop has reached me,
No humid wind, no dew of love —
A rainless land —
Now I beseech my wisdom
Not to become miserly in this drought:
Pour out of me, my trickling dew,
My own rain for the yellowed desert!

Once I commanded the clouds
To move away from my mountains —
Once I spoke, “More light, for your shady places!"
Today, I entice them so that they come:
Give shade to me with your udders! —
I want to milk
You cows on high!
Milkwarm wisdom, sweet dew of love
I pour over the land.

Begone, begone, truths
That gloomily watch over you!
I do not want to see on my mountains
Bitter impatient truths.
Today the truth approaches
Me with a gilded smile
Sweetened by the sun, from bronzed love —
I break off only a ripe truth from the tree.

Today I stretch out my hand
To the curls of chance,
Clever enough
To lead chance along like a child, to outfox it.
Today I want to be hospitable
To the unwelcome,
I don't even want to be sharp against destiny —
Zarathustra is not a hedgehog.

My soul,
Insatiable with its tongue,
Has already licked all the good and bad things,
It has dived down into every depth
But ever like a cork,
It always floats again to the top,
It flits about like oil over brown seas:
Thanks to this soul one calls me the happy one.

Who are father and mother to me?
Is not my father the prince of superabundance
And my mother tranquil laughter?
Did not these two in bond of marriage create
Me, animal of enigmas,
Me, unfriendly light,
Me, prodigal of all wisdom, Zarathustra?

Suffering today from tenderness,
A thawing wind,
Zarathustra waits seated, waits in his mountains —
In his own juice
Becoming sweet and stewed,
Underneath his summit,
Underneath his ice,
Weary and blissful,
A creator on his seventh day.

Hush!
A truth glides over me
Like a cloud —
It strikes me with invisible lightning.
Its happiness climbs slowly
Unto me by broad stairs:
Come, come, beloved truth!

Hush!
It’s my truth!
From demurring eyes,
From velvet shudderings
Its glance strikes at me,
Charming, evil, the glance of a girl...
She found the base of my happiness
She found me—ha! how did she figure it out? —
A crimson dragon lurks
Within the abyss of her girl-glance.

Hush! My truth speaks! —

Dear you, Zarathustra!
You look like one
Who has swallowed gold:
One day they must slit open your belly!...

You are too rich,
You corruptor of many!
You make too many envious,
You make too many poor...
I am cast into shadow by your light —
I shiver: go away, you rich one,
Go, Zarathustra, away from your sun!...

You would like to give, give away your superabundance,
But you yourself are the superfluous one!
Be clever, you rich one!
First give away yourself, oh Zarathustra!

For ten years now —
And no drop has reached you?
No humid wind? no dew of love?
But who ought to love thee as well,
You over-rich-one?
Your happiness creates nothing but aridity,
Makes a dearth of love —
A rainless land...

No one thanks you any longer,
But you thank everyone
Who takes from you:
Hence,
Over-rich-one,
I see you as the poorest of all the rich ones!

You sacrifice yourself, your wealth torments you,
You give away yourself,
You don't take care of yourself, you don't love yourself;
Great agony always compels you,
The agony of an overflowing barn, an overabundant heart;
But no one thanks you any longer...

You must become poorer,
Unwise wise one!
If you wish to be loved.
One loves only the suffering man,
One gives love only to the hungry man:
First give away yourself, oh Zarathustra!

—I am your truth...