But their hour cometh! And there cometh also mine! Hourly do they become smaller, poorer, unfruitfuller⁠—poor herbs! poor earth!

And soon shall they stand before me like dry grass and prairie, and verily, weary of themselves⁠—and panting for fire , more than for water!

O blessed hour of the lightning! O mystery before noontide!⁠—Running fires will I one day make of them, and heralds with flaming tongues:⁠—

—Herald shall they one day with flaming tongues: It cometh, it is nigh, the great noontide !

Thus spake Zarathustra.