1

"Don't go!" said the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra's shadow. "Stay with us—otherwise our old dull affliction might seize us again.
That old magician has already given us his worst for our benefit, and behold, that good pious pope there has tears in his eyes and has again embarked on the sea of melancholy.
These kings here may still put on a pleasant countenance: but had they no witnesses, I wager that for them too the wicked game would recommence—
The wicked game of drifting clouds, of damp melancholy, of imposing skies, of stolen suns, of howling autumn winds—
The wicked game of our own howling and cries of distress: Stay with us, Zarathustra! Here there is much concealed misery that wants to speak, much evening, much cloud, much musty air!
You have nourished us with strong food for men and fortifying maxims: do not let the frail effeminate spirits seize us again for dessert!
You alone make the air around you strong and clear! Have I ever found such good air on earth than with you in your cave?
I have seen many lands, my nose has learned to test and assess many kinds of air: but with you my nostrils taste their greatest delight!
Unless, unless—oh forgive an old memory! Forgive me an old after-dinner song, which I once composed among the daughters of the desert.
For with them the air was equally good, clear, and oriental; never was I farther away from cloudy, damp, melancholy old Europe!
At that time I loved such Oriental girls and other blue skies, over which no clouds and no thoughts hung.
You would not believe how dutifully they sat there, when they were not dancing, deep, but without thoughts, like little secrets, like ribboned riddles, like after-dinner nuts—
Colorful and strange, forsooth! but without clouds: riddles that let themselves be guessed: for such girls I then conceived an after-dinner psalm."

Thus spoke the wanderer, who called himself Zarathustra's shadow; and before anyone answered him, he had already seized the harp of the old magician, crossed his legs and looked around, composed and wise: but with his nostrils he drew in the air slowly and inquiringly, as one tastes the new air in a foreign land. At last he began to sing with a kind of roar.

2

The desert grows: woe to him in whom deserts hide ...

3

Ha!
Solemn!
A worthy beginning!
Solemnly African!
Worthy of a lion
Or of a moral screaming monkey ...
— But nothing for you,
You most beloved maidens,
At whose feet I,
A European under palm trees,
Am allowed to sit. Selah.
Truly wonderful!
Here I now sit,
Near the desert and yet
So far from the desert again,
And in no way desolate:
To wit, gulped down
By this smallest oasis —
It just opened up yawning
Its lovely mouth,
The most redolent of all little mouths:
Then I fell in,
Down, through—among you,
You most beloved maidens. Selah.

Hail, hail to that whale,
If he let his guest be so
Well off! —you understand
My learned allusion? ...
Hail to his belly,
If it was as
Lovely an oasis-belly
As this: yet I cast doubt on it.
For I come from Europe,
Which is more doubt-addicted than any nagging old wife.
May God improve it!
Amen!
Here I now sit,
In this smallest oasis,
Like a date,
Brown, sweet through, gold-oozing,
Lusting for the round mouth of a girl,
But even more for girlish
Ice-cold, snow-white, cutting
Biting-teeth: for after these
The hearts of all hot dates lust. Selah.

Similar, all-too-similar
To the aforesaid Mediterranean fruit,
I lie here, with little
Winged beetles
Dancing about and playing around,
Just like even smaller,
More foolish, more sinful
Wishes and notions —
Surrounded by you,
You silent, you ominous
Girl-kittens
Dudu und Suleika —
Ensphinxed, to cram a lot of
Feelings into one word
(—May God forgive me
This sin of speech! ...)—
I sit here, sniffing the best air,
Verily, air of paradise,
Clear, mild air, gold-striped,
As good air as ever
Fell down from the moon,
Be it by chance
Or did it happen from wantonness?
As the old poets tell.
Yet I, a sceptic, have my doubts,
For I come
From Europe,
Which is more doubt-addicted than any nagging old wife.
May God improve it!
Amen!
Drinking in this fairest air,
My nostrils swollen like goblets,
Without future, without memories,
Thus I sit here, you
Most beloved maidens,
And watch the palm tree,
As it, like a dancer,
Bends and arches and sways at the hips —
One does it too, if one watches long ...
Like a dancer, who, as it would seem to me,
Has stood too long, precariously long
Always, always only on one little leg? —
For she has forgotten, it would seem to me,
The other leg?
At least in vain
I sought the missing
Twin-jewel
— Namely, the other leg —
In the holy proximity
Of her most beloved, most delicate
Fanned-, and flittering-, and tinseled-tutus.
Yes, if you would, you fair maidens,
Quite believe me,
She has lost it ...

Oh my! oh my! oh my! oh my! oh my! ...
It is gone,
Gone forever,
The other leg!
Oh what a shame about that lovely other leg!
Where—whence may it be lamenting forsaken,
This lonely leg?
Perhaps in fear of a
Grim, yellow, blond-maned
Lion-monster? Or maybe even
Gnawed off, nibbled off —
Pitiful, alas! alas! Nibbled off! Selah.

Oh weep not,
Soft hearts!
Weep not, you
Date-hearts! Milk-bosoms!
You little-licorice-
Heart-sacs!
Be a man, Suleika! Courage! Courage!
Weep no more,
Pale Dudu!—
Or should perhaps
Something fortifying, heart-fortifying
Be called for here?
An anointed maxim?
A more solemn exhortation? ...

Ha! Up, dignity!
Blow, blow again,
Bellows of virtue!
Ha!
Once more roar,
Roar morally,
Roar like a moral lion before the daughters of the desert!
— For virtuous howling,
You most beloved maidens,
Is more than anything
European fervor, European ravenous appetite!
And yet here I stand,
As a European,
I cannot do else, God help me!*
Amen!

The desert grows: woe to him in whom deserts hide!
Stone grinds against stone, the desert devours and strangles,
Glowing brown monstrous death stares
And chews; its life is to chew ...

Do not forget, man, consumed by lust:
you—are the stone, the desert, are death ...