Now we celebrate together, certain of victory,
Let the old go! Let the memories go!
Now the world laughs, the dread curtain is rent,
Nothing but ghosts of friends!
That look at me and say: "were we once friends?" —
O longing of youth that misunderstood itself!
I sought where the most biting wind blows?
Am I another? A stranger to myself?
Only he who changes remains akin to me.
This song is over—the sweet cry of longing
Once you were young, now—you are younger!
I—am no longer the same? Hands, face, gait have changed?
At noon was the time one became two ...
What once tied us together, one hope's bond —
Where are you friends? Come! It's time! It's time!
Friend Zarathustra has come, the guest of guests!
Love once inscribed on it, the faded ones?
The strongest was he who drew his bow like this— —:
No longer friends, they are—what should I call them?—
But now alas! No arrow is dangerous
Here among this most remote realm of ice and rock—
In the heights my table was set for you: —
The wedding has come for light and darkness .....
Wounded and stopped by his own victory?
Those I deemed changed into my kin,
Who still reads the signs
You hesitate, amazed—oh, you are quite sullen!
Unlearned man and god, curse and prayer?
My realm—what realm stretches further?
Is afraid to grasp,—like parchment that is discolored, burnt.
A wrestler, who too often subdued himself?
I await friends, ready day and night,
The friend of noon—no! do not ask who he is—
O noon of life! O time to celebrate!
To the grey yonder of the abyss?
And my honey—who has tasted it? .....
Restless happiness in standing, watching and waiting!
I await friends, ready day and night
As that arrow,—away from here! For your own good! .....
Restless happiness in standing, watching and waiting: —
No, leave! Do not be angry! You—cannot live here:
Here one has to be a hunter and chamois-like.
New friends! Come! It's time! It's time!
That knock at my heart and window nightly,
A sorceror did it, the friend at the right time,
And what I am, to you friends—I am not?
— O withered word, once fragrant as the rose!
I compare it to parchment that the hand
You turn away?— O heart, you have borne enough,
That they have aged has driven them away:
Too often resisted his own strength,
— There you are, friends!— Alas, but I am not
