Oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, ye only drink milk and refreshment from the light’s udders!

Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me; it panteth after your thirst!

’Tis night; alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!

’Tis night; now doth 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.