Ecce Homo Complete Works, Volume Seventeen · Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
I
Speak, tell me, how long wilt thou brood Upon this adverse fate of thine? Beware, lest from thy doleful mood A countenance _90_ dark is brewed That men in seeing thee divine A hate more bitter than the brine. * * * * Speak, why does Zarathustra roam Upon the towering mountain-height? Distrustful, cankered, dour, his home Is shut so long from human sight? * * * * See, suddenly flames forth a lightning-flash, The pit profound with thunderous challenge fights Against the heavens, midst clamorous crack and crash Of the great mountain! Cradled in the heights, Born as the fruit of hate and lightning's love, The wrath of Zarathustra dwells above And looms with menace of a thundercloud. * * * * Ye, who have roofs, go quickly, creep and hide! To bed, ye tenderlings! For thunders loud Upon the blasts of storm triumphant ride, And bastions and ramparts sway and rock, The lightning sears the dusky face of night, And eerie truths like gleams of Hades mock The sense familiar. So in storm breaks forth The flaming curse of Zarathustra's wrath.
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