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O thou, my Will! Thou change of every need, my needfulness! Preserve me from all small victories!

Thou fatedness of my soul, which I call fate! Thou In-me! Over-me! Preserve and spare me for one great fate!

And thy last greatness, my Will, spare it for thy last — that thou mayest be inexorable in thy victory! Ah, who hath not succumbed to his victory!

Ah, whose eye hath not bedimmed in this intoxicated twilight! Ah, whose foot hath not faltered and forgotten in victory — how to stand!

That I may one day be ready and ripe in the great noontide; ready and ripe like the glowing ore, the lightning- bearing cloud, and the swelling milk-udder —

Ready for myself and for my most hidden Will: a bow eager for its arrow, an arrow eager for its star —

A star, ready and ripe in its noontide, glowing, pierced, blessed, by annihilating sun-arrows —

A sun itself, and an inexorable sun-will, ready for annihilation in victory!

O Will, thou change of every need, my needfulness! Spare me for one great victory!

Thus spake Zarathustra.