"My eye no longer wells up at the shame of those who beg; my hand became too hard for the trembling of filled hands. Where have the tears of my eye and the down of my heart gone? Oh loneliness of all bestowers! Oh muteness of all who shine! Many suns revolve in desolate space. To everything that is dark they speak with their light – to me they are mute. Oh this is the enmity of light toward that which shines; mercilessly it goes its orbit. Unjust in its deepest heart toward that which shines: cold toward suns – thus every sun goes. Like a storm the suns fly their orbit, that is their motion. They follow their inexorable will; that is their coldness. Oh it is you only, you dark ones, you nocturnal ones, who create warmth out of that which shines! Oh it is you only who drink milk and refreshment from the udders of light! Alas, ice surrounds me, my hand burns itself on iciness! Alas, there is thirst in me that yearns for your thirst!"