Now you are pale
and cursed to wander winter's rise,
like fumes prevail
that always seek the colder skies.
Seek, bird, and shriek
your desert-bird-song, worn and torn! –
And hide, you freak,
your bleeding heart in ice and scorn!
Shrill shriek the crows
that to the town in whirls roam:
soon come the snows –
woe unto him, who has no home!
Friedrich Nietzsche
Shrill shriek the crows
that to the town in whirls roam:
soon come the snows –
weal unto him, who – has a home!
Now you stand still,
look back, alas! how far unfurled!
You fool! You will
escape the winter to the world?
The world – a gate
to thousand deserts, mute and chill!
Who lost his fate,
as you have lost, stands nowhere still.