I will not war against the night,
Nor push the heavy stone away;
I drop the sword, I cease the fight,
And let the darkness have its say.
For Nietzsche whispered through the cold:
Amor fati—love the fate.
The bitter cup, the heavy mold,
The fire that burns inside the gate.
When suffering is held, not feared,
Its sharpest edge begins to dull;
The monster that was once revered
Becomes a void, quiet and still.
You do not run, you do not hide,
You say a \"Yes\" to every tear;
And sitting by the fire inside,
The pain grows small, and safety near.