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The Night Song
08:17
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Now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
Now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.
Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it longs to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaks itself the language of love.
Light am I: that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be girt with light!
That I were dark and nightly!
And you yourselves would I bless, you glow- worms aloft! - and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.
But I live in my own light, I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me.
I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.
It is my poverty that my hand never ceases bestowing; it is my envy that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.
The misery of all bestowers! the darkening of my sun! the craving to crave! the violent hunger in satiety!
They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap between giving and receiving; and the smallest gap has finally to be bridged over.
A hunger arises out of my beauty: I should like to injure those I illumine; I should like to rob those I have gifted: - thus do I hunger for wickedness.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretches out to it; hesitating like the cascade, which hesitates even in its leap: - thus do I hunger for wickedness!
Such revenge does my abundance think of such mischief wells out of my lonesomeness
My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing; my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!
He who ever bestows is in danger of losing his shame; to 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 eyes, and the down of my heart? The lonesomeness of all bestowers! 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.
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.
You only is it, you dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones! You only drink milk and refreshment from the light's udders!
There is ice around me; my hand burns with the iciness! There is thirst in me; it pants after your thirst!
Alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!
Now does my longing break forth in me as a fountain, - for speech do I long.
Now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
Now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.
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2. |
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A black sunset rises under a funeral sky
The freezing waters below as mirrors made of funeral mist
The blasting sky above and the fullmoon is on the rise
My hair blows in the winds of reap
Still I float with the cold diabolical massacre winds
On the bestial wings of evil
Above the mountainside and into cryptic winterstorms
I long for eternal frost and black winters
AsIeep is the cold lakes awake in the stars in the sky
And silent the vaIIeys in the North
Where I once were a proud warrior
Where I belong where I bath my soul in doomfirefog
Where I ride deaths cold winds in the battles in the North
As a Norse warrior I rode the dark valleys
With longsword in hand sworned to throne dark lands
And to return to my master in the blue mist of the dying sunset
A black sunset dies under the funeral sky
My hair blows in the winds of reap
Still I float with the cold diabolical massacrewinds
On the overshadowed bestial wings of evil
Above the mountainside and into cryptic winterstorms forever
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