On the Poverty of the Richest Friedrich Nietzsche

For ten years now —
No drop has reached me,
No humid wind, no dew of love —
A rainless land —
Now I beseech my wisdom
Not to become miserly in this drought:
Pour out of me, my trickling dew,
My own rain for the yellowed desert!

Once I commanded the clouds
To move away from my mountains —
Once I spoke, "More light, for your shady places!"
Today, I entice them so that they come:
Give shade to me with your udders! —
I want to milk
You cows on high!
Milkwarm wisdom, sweet dew of love
I pour over the land.

Begone, begone, truths
That gloomily watch over you!
I do not want to see on my mountains
Bitter impatient truths.
Today the truth approaches
Me with a gilded smile
Sweetened by the sun, from bronzed love —
I break off only a ripe truth from the tree.