Among Daughters of the Desert

1

“Do not go away!” said the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra’s shadow. “Stay with us, or else the old, dull gloom might attack us again.

“That old sorcerer has already treated us to his worst, and just look, the good, pious pope there has tears in his eyes and has set out once more entirely on the sea of melancholy.

“These kings may well still put on a good face before us: for of all of us they learned that best today! But if they had no witnesses, I bet the wicked game would start again with them too—

“—the wicked game of drifting clouds, of damp melancholy, of veiled skies, of stolen suns, of howling autumn winds,

“—the wicked game of our howling and crying out in distress: stay with us, O Zarathustra! Here is much hidden misery that wants to speak, much evening, much cloud, much dull air!

“You have fed us with strong men’s fare and powerful sayings: do not let the soft, womanish spirits attack us again for dessert!

“You alone make the air around you strong and clear! Did I ever find such good air on earth as with you in your cave?

“And I have seen many lands; my nose has learned to test and appraise many kinds of air: but with you my nostrils taste their greatest joy!

“Unless,—unless—, oh, forgive an old memory! Forgive me an old dessert song that I once composed among daughters of the desert:—

“—for with them there was the same good, bright, Eastern air; there I was farthest from cloudy, damp, melancholy old Europe!

“In those days I loved such Eastern girls and another blue kingdom of heaven, over which no clouds and no thoughts hang.

“You would not believe how sweetly they sat there when they were not dancing, deep, but without thoughts, like little secrets, like beribboned riddles, like dessert nuts—

“colorful and strange, truly! but without clouds: riddles that let themselves be guessed: for love of such girls I devised a dessert psalm back then.”

Thus spoke the wanderer and shadow; and before anyone answered him, he had already seized the old sorcerer’s harp, crossed his legs, and was looking around him, calm and wise:—but with his nostrils he slowly and questioningly drew in the air, like one tasting new, foreign air in new lands. Then he began to sing with a kind of roar.

2

The desert grows: woe to him who harbors deserts!

—Ha! Solemn!
Solemn indeed!
A worthy beginning!
African-solemn!
Worthy of a lion,
Or of a moral howler monkey—
—but nothing for you,
You dearest lady friends,
At whose feet I,
For the first time,
A European, beneath palm trees
Am permitted to sit. Selah.

Wonderful, truly!
Here I sit now,
Near the desert and already
So far from the desert again,
And in no way yet laid waste:
That is, swallowed down
By this smallest of oases—:
—it just opened wide, yawning,
Its lovely mouth,
The sweetest-smelling of all little mouths:
Then I fell in,
Down, through—among you,
You dearest lady friends! Selah.

Hail, hail to that whale,
If it made things so pleasant
For its guest!—you understand
My learned allusion?
Hail to its belly,
If it was
So lovely an oasis-belly
As this one: which, however, I call into doubt,
—after all, I come from Europe,
Which is more doubt-addicted than all
Elderly little wives.
May God improve it!
Amen!

Here I sit now,
In this smallest of oases,
Like a date,
Brown, sweetened through, oozing gold, lusting
For a round girl’s mouth,
But still more for girlish,
Ice-cold, snow-white, cutting
Biting teeth: for it is for these
That the heart of all hot dates pines. Selah.

Like the southern fruits
Just named, all too like them,
I lie here, by little
Winged beetles
Danced around and played around,
Likewise by still smaller,
More foolish, more malicious
Wishes and notions,
Besieged by you,
You mute, you full-of-foreboding
Girl-cats,
Dudu and Suleika,
—ensphinxed, to stuff into one word
Many feelings:
(May God forgive me
This sin against language!)
—I sit here sniffing the best air,
Air of paradise, truly,
Bright, light air, striped with gold,
As good an air as ever
Fell down from the moon—
Was it by chance,
Or did it happen from high spirits?
As the old poets tell.
But I, a doubter, call it
Into doubt, but after all I come
From Europe,
Which is more doubt-addicted than all
Elderly little wives.
May God improve it!
Amen!

Drinking this most beautiful air,
With nostrils swelled like goblets, Without future, without memories,
So I sit here, you
Dearest lady friends,
And watch the palm tree
As, like a dancing girl,
It bends and sways and rocks its hips,
—one does it too if one watches long!
Like a dancing girl who, as it would seem to me,
Has stood too long already, dangerously long,
Always, always only on one leg?
—so that she forgot, as it would seem to me,
The other little leg?
In vain at least
I searched for the missing twin jewel
—namely the other leg—
In the holy vicinity
Of her dearest, daintiest
Fanning and fluttering and glittering little skirt.
Yes, if you, my beautiful friends,
Will believe me entirely:
She has lost it!
It is gone!
Gone forever!
The other leg!
Oh, what a pity about that lovely other leg!
Where—can it be lingering, forsaken and grieving?
The lonely leg?
In fear perhaps of a
Fierce, yellow, blond-maned
Lion-monster? Or even already
Gnawed away, nibbled away—
Pitiably, woe! woe! nibbled away! Selah.

Oh, do not weep,
Soft hearts!
Do not weep, you
Date hearts! Milk bosoms!
You licorice-heart-
Little pouches!
Weep no more,
Pale Dudu!
Be a man, Suleika! Courage! Courage!
—Or should perhaps
Something strengthening, heart-strengthening,
Be in order here?
An anointed saying?
A solemn exhortation?—

Ha! Up, dignity!
Virtue’s dignity! European dignity!
Blow, blow again,
Bellows of virtue!
Ha!
Roar once more,
Roar morally!
As a moral lion
Roar before the daughters of the desert!
—For virtue’s howling,
You dearest girls,
Is more than anything else
European ardor, European ravenous hunger!
And there I stand already,
As a European,
I can do no other, God help me!
Amen!

The desert grows: woe to him who harbors deserts!