Idylls from Messina
Translated by an AI Model
Idylls from Messina.
By Friedrich Nietzsche.
Prince Footloose.
So here I hang on a crooked bough, High above sea and hillock: A bird invited me as a guest – I flew after it and rested and rested And flap my little wings.
The white sea has fallen asleep, Every woe and sigh within me sleeps. I have forgotten goal and harbor, Forgotten fear and praise and punishments: Now I fly after every bird.
Just step by step – that’s no life! Always leg before leg makes one weary and heavy! I let myself be lifted by the winds, I love to hover on wings And chase after every bird.
Reason? – that’s a nasty business: Reason and tongue often stumble! Flying gave me new strength And taught me finer pursuits, Song and jest and minstrelsy.
To think alone – that is wise, To sing alone – that is foolish! So listen to me in my own way And sit quietly around me in a circle, You lovely little birds!
The Little Brig, named “The Angelkin.”
Angelkin: that’s what they call me – Now a ship, once a maiden, Ah, still very much a maiden! For my delicate little rudder Always turns for love.
Angelkin: that’s what they call me – I am adorned with a hundred pennants, And the prettiest little captain Swells at my helm, Like the hundred and first pennant.
Angelkin: that’s what they call me – Wherever a little flame Glows for me, I run like a lamb My path longingly: I was always such a lamb.
Angelkin: that’s what they call me – Do you really think that like a little dog I can bark and that my little mouth Throws off steam and fire? Ah, my little mouth is devilish!
Angelkin: that’s what they call me – Once I spoke a bitter, evil word, So that my beloved Quickly fled to his last resting place: Yes, he died from that word!
Angelkin: that’s what they call me – Scarcely heard, I leaped from the cliff Into the depths and broke a rib, So that my dear soul departed: Yes, it departed through that rib!
Angelkin: that’s what they call me – My soul, like a kitten, Took one, two, three, four, five leaps, Then swung into this little ship – Yes, it has quick little paws.
Angelkin: that’s what they call me – Now a ship, once a maiden, Ah, still very much a maiden! For my delicate little rudder Always turns for love.
Song of the Goatherd.
(To my neighbor Theocritus of Syracuse.)
Here I lie, sick in my gut – The bedbugs are eating me. And over there, still light and noise: I hear them, they’re dancing.
She was to steal to me At this very hour: I wait like a dog – No sign comes!
The cross, when she promised it! How could she lie? Or does she run after everyone, Like my goats?
Whence her silk skirt? – Ah, my proud one? Many a billy goat still dwells In these woods?
How tangled and poisonous Makes waiting in love! So in sultry night Grows poisonous mushrooms in the garden.
Love consumes me Like seven evils – I can scarcely eat anything, Farewell, you onions!
The moon has already set into the sea, All the stars are tired, Grey comes the day – I would gladly die.
The Little Witch.
As long as my little body is still pretty, It’s worth it to be pious. One knows, God loves the little women, The pretty ones, moreover.
He will certainly gladly forgive The sweet little monk, That he, like many a little monk, So gladly wants to be with me.
No grey church father! No, still young and often red, Often like the greyest tomcat Full of jealousy and distress!
I don’t love old men, He doesn’t love old women: How wonderfully and wisely God arranged this!
The Church knows how to live, It examines heart and face. It always wants to forgive me: – Indeed, who would not forgive me!
One whispers with one’s little mouth, One curtsies and goes out And with the new little sin One extinguishes the old one.
Praised be God on Earth, Who loves pretty girls And gladly forgives himself Such heartaches!
As long as my little body is still pretty, It’s worth it to be pious: As an old wobbly woman May the devil woo me!
The Nocturnal Secret
Last night, as all slept, barely did the wind with uncertain sighs drift through the alleys, my pillow gave me no rest, nor poppy, nor what else makes one sleep deeply — a clear conscience.
Finally, I shook sleep from my mind and ran to the shore. It was moonlit and mild — I met man and boat on warm sand, both sleepy, shepherd and sheep: — Sleepily the boat pushed off from land.
An hour, perhaps two, or was it a year? — then suddenly my senses and thoughts sank into an eternal sameness, and an abyss without bounds opened up: — then it was over! —
Morning came: on dark depths a boat stands and rests and rests — What happened? so cried, so cried a hundred soon — what was it? Blood? — Nothing happened! We slept, all slept — oh, so well! so well!
"Pious, charitable, most loving".
(At the Campo Santo.)
Oh maiden, who to the lamb offers the tender skin of herbs, from whose eyes both light and flame gaze, you lovely thing for jesting, you darling far and near, so devout, so gentle of heart, most loving!
What broke the chain so early? Who saddened your heart? And if you loved, who would not have loved you enough? — You are silent — yet tears are near your gentle eyes: — You were silent — and died of longing, most loving!
Albatross Bird.
Oh wonder! Does it still fly? It ascends and its wings rest! What lifts and carries it? What is its goal and pull and bridle now?
It flew highest — now heaven itself lifts the victoriously flying one: Now it rests still and hovers, forgetting the victory and the victor.
Like star and eternity, it lives in heights now, which life flees, pitying even envy —: And high flew he who merely sees it hover!
Oh Albatross bird! To the heights an eternal urge drives me! I thought of you: then tear after tear flowed from me — yes, I love you!
Bird's Judgment.
As I recently sat under dark trees to refresh myself, I heard ticking, softly ticking, delicately, as if to beat and measure.
I grew annoyed, made faces, but finally gave in, until, like a poet, I myself spoke along with the tick-tock.
As in my verse-making syllable after syllable sprang its hop, I suddenly had to laugh, laugh for a quarter of an hour, You a poet? You his poet? Is your head so bad? — "Yes, sir! You are a poet! — So spoke the Woodpecker bird.