The word blew to me through the keyhole and said “Come!” The door sprang subtlely open unto me, and said “Go!”

But I lay enchained to my love for my children: desire spread this snare for me⁠—the desire for love⁠—that I should become the prey of my children, and lose myself in them.

Desiring⁠—that is now for me to have lost myself. I possess you, my children! In this possessing shall everything be assurance and nothing desire.

But brooding lay the sun of my love upon me, in his own juice stewed Zarathustra⁠—then did shadows and doubts fly past me.

For frost and winter I now longed: “Oh, that frost and winter would again make me crack and crunch!” sighed I:⁠—then arose icy mist out of me.

My past burst its tomb, many pains buried alive woke up⁠—: fully slept had they merely, concealed in corpse-clothes.