An den Mistral. Ein Tanzlied.
Mistral-Wind, du Wolken-Jäger,
Trübsal-Mörder,
Himmels-Feger,
Brausender,
wie lieb' ich dich!
Sind wir Zwei nicht Eines Schoosses Erstlingsgabe,
Eines Looses Vorbestimmte ewiglich?
Hier auf glatten Felsenwegen Lauf' ich tanzend dir entgegen,
Tanzend, wie du pfeifst und singst:
Der du ohne Schiff und Ruder Als der Freiheit freister Bruder Ueber wilde Meere springst.
Kaum erwacht,
hört' ich dein Rufen,
Stürmte zu den Felsenstufen,
Hin zur gelben Wand am Meer.
Heil! da kamst du schon gleich hellen Diamantnen Stromesschnellen Sieghaft von den Bergen her.
Auf den ebnen Himmels-Tennen
Sah ich deine Rosse rennen, Sah den Wagen,
der dich trägt,
Sah die Hand dir selber zücken,
Wenn sie auf der Rosse Rücken Blitzesgleich die Geissel schlägt,
- Sah dich aus dem Wagen springen,
Schneller dich hinabzuschwingen,
Sah dich wie zum Pfeil verkürzt Senkrecht in die Tiefe stossen,
- Wie ein Goldstrahl durch die Rosen Erster Morgenröthen stürzt.
Tanze nun auf tausend Rücken,
Wellen-Rücken,
Wellen-Tücken
- Heil, wer neue
Tänze schafft!
Tanzen wir in tausend Weisen,
Frei - sei unsre Kunst geheissen,
Fröhlich - unsre Wissenschaft!
Raffen wir von jeder Blume Eine Blüthe uns zum Ruhme
Und zwei Blätter noch zum Kranz!
Tanzen wir gleich Troubadouren Zwischen Heiligen und Huren,
Zwischen Gott und Welt den Tanz!
Wer nicht tanzen kann mit Winden,
Wer sich wickeln muss mit Binden,
Angebunden, Krüppel-Greis,
Wer da gleicht den Heuchel-Hänsen,
Ehren-Tölpeln,
Tugend-Gänsen,
Fort aus unsrem Paradeis!
Wirbeln wir den Staub der Strassen Allen Kranken in die Nasen,
Scheuchen wir die Kranken-Brut!
Lösen wir die ganze Küste Von dem Odem dürrer Brüste,
Von den Augen ohne Muth!
Jagen wir die Himmels-Trüber,
Welten-Schwärzer,
Wolken-Schieber,
Hellen wir das Himmelreich!
Brausen wir...
oh aller freien Geister Geist,
mit dir zu Zweien Braust mein Glück dem Sturme gleich.
- Und dass ewig das Gedächtniss Solchen Glücks,
nimm sein Vermächtniss,
Nimm den Kranz hier mit hinauf!
Wirf ihn höher, ferner, weiter, Stürm' empor die Himmelsleiter,
Häng ihn - an den Sternen auf!
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Parable of the Madman
Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning
hours,
ran to the market place, and cried incessantly:
"I seek God! I seek God!"
As many of those who did not believe in God
were standing around just then,
he provoked much laughter.
Has he got lost? asked one.
Did he lose his way like a child? asked another.
Or is he hiding?
Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated?
Thus they yelled and laughed.
The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes.
"Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you.
We have killed him---you and I.
All of us are his murderers.
But how did we do this?
How could we drink up the sea?
Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon?
What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun?
Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving?
Away from all suns?
Are we not plunging continually?
Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions?
Is there still any up or down?
Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing?
Do we not feel the breath of empty space?
Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us?
Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning?
Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers
who are burying God?
Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition?
Gods, too, decompose.
God is dead.
God remains dead.
And we have killed him.
"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?
What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled
to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us?
What water is there for us to clean ourselves?
What festivals of atonement, what sacred gamesshall we have to invent?
Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us?
Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?
There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us -
For the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all
history hitherto."
Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners;
and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment.
At last he threw his lantern on the ground,
and it broke into pieces and went out.
"I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet.
This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering;
it has not yet reached the ears of men.
Lightning and thunder require time;
the light of the stars requires time;
deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard.
This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars -
and yet they have done it themselves.
It has been related further that on the same day
the madman forced his way into several churches
and there struck up his requiem aeternam deo.
Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing
but:
"What after all are these churches now
if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?"
-- Friedrich Nietzsche
Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning
hours,
ran to the market place, and cried incessantly:
"I seek God! I seek God!"
As many of those who did not believe in God
were standing around just then,
he provoked much laughter.
Has he got lost? asked one.
Did he lose his way like a child? asked another.
Or is he hiding?
Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated?
Thus they yelled and laughed.
The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes.
"Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you.
We have killed him---you and I.
All of us are his murderers.
But how did we do this?
How could we drink up the sea?
Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon?
What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun?
Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving?
Away from all suns?
Are we not plunging continually?
Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions?
Is there still any up or down?
Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing?
Do we not feel the breath of empty space?
Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us?
Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning?
Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers
who are burying God?
Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition?
Gods, too, decompose.
God is dead.
God remains dead.
And we have killed him.
"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?
What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled
to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us?
What water is there for us to clean ourselves?
What festivals of atonement, what sacred gamesshall we have to invent?
Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us?
Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?
There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us -
For the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all
history hitherto."
Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners;
and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment.
At last he threw his lantern on the ground,
and it broke into pieces and went out.
"I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet.
This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering;
it has not yet reached the ears of men.
Lightning and thunder require time;
the light of the stars requires time;
deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard.
This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars -
and yet they have done it themselves.
It has been related further that on the same day
the madman forced his way into several churches
and there struck up his requiem aeternam deo.
Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing
but:
"What after all are these churches now
if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?"
-- Friedrich Nietzsche
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