Lind Fuin - Night Song

[Elaran]

This is my Sindarin translation of the Night Song from Thus Spake Zarathustra by Nietzsche. I was planning to update it (it's a bit old now) with our newest discoveries on the language but I'm too busy for that at the moment, and I wanted to share it now, so here.

Fuin: sí bedir ammrui in-eithelath duiol. Ar i-faer nîn eithel duiol eithro.
'Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.

Fuin: sí echuiar i-linnath melethryn. Ar i-faer nîn i-lind melethron eithro.
'Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.

Nad alfarnen, alfarnef vi nin; mêr epheded. Anírad am-meleth vi nin, bedel i-lam meleth.
Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it longeth to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaketh itself the language of love.

Ni calad: ai, ieston ni fuin! Ach 'waedannen na-chalad, se i-erassen!
Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be begirt with light!

Ai, ieston ni morn a fuinui! Ian lavraen i-thith calad!
Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of light!

Ar edh eliaen, in-elin hilivrin a phígelin na-menel! – ar 'ellaen nan ent e-galad dhîn!
And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms aloft! – and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.

Ach guion vin-galaden nîn, dassogon i-noer ethuiennin.
But I live in mine own light, I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me.

Law-iston i-'lass caved; a nóthannen laew, raphed eliannen atha-chaved.
I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.

Pladen dâr aned alui, se i-bened nîn; cened hîn dharthol a fuin gellennin anírad, se i-elad nîn.
It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth bestowing; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.

Ai, i-naeth oen! Ai, i-'wathrad anoren! Ai, i-anírad anírad! Ai, i-haeth vregol vi farnas!
Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the craving to crave! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety!

Cevir o nin: ach besson i-faer dîn? Gas im aned a chaved; a phen bóra athrad i-'as ro-bín vedui.
They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap 'twixt giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over.

Saeth eria o bainassen: merin naethad hain i gallon; raphed aníron ui-hain i ónen: – se i-haeth nîn an-oglas.
A hunger ariseth out of my beauty: I should like to injure those I illumine; I should like to rob those I have gifted: – thus do I hunger for wickedness.

Toged i-gammen ir cham egel raetha athen; darthad sui lanthir, i dhartha vin-gabed dîn eithro: – se i-haeth nîn an-oglas!
Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretcheth out to it; hesitating like the cascade, which hesitateth even in its leap: – thus do I hunger for wickedness!

Se i-acharn i ovrassen nótha: se i-oglas uin-erassen ethiria!
Such revenge doth mine abundance think of: such mischief welleth out of my lonesomeness.

Glassen vi aned, gwann nan aned; faelassen lom aneth nan ovrassed.
My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing; my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!

In-enir eigar gé i-gúnas dîn; in-enir olar arnuichad nan aned.
He who ever bestoweth is in danger of losing his shame; to him who ever dispenseth, the hand and heart become callous by very dispensing.

Sí ló-nínion a-chúnas pin moerwig; cammen thannen darch íd am-mathad i-ñirith cem bent.
Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame of suppliants; my hand hath become too hard for the trembling of filled hands.

Mad evíner i-nîr hennen, a gwalath gúren? Ai, i-eras ónath! Ai, i-dîn cólath!
Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!

Enyr laew periar o-hery: pedir na-chalad dîn anin-nadath vyrn – ach dínen annin.
Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with their light – but to me they are silent.

Ai, se i-goth calad anin-gaul: ruida arníred i-rath dîn.
Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: unpityingly doth it pursue its course.

Úfael anin-gaul vin-ind dîn, ring anin enyr – se i-lend anorath.
Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the suns: – thus travelleth every sun.

Sui alagos in-enyr ruidar idh-reth dîn: se i-lennedir. Ruidar in-innas arníred dîn: se i-ringassedir.
Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses: that is their travelling. Their inexorable will do they follow: that is their coldness.

Ai, i-phin vyrn erui, pelidh toged i-lauth calad! Ai, pelidh sogad i-limp uin-dith calad erui!
Oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, ye only drink milk and refreshment from the light's udders!

Ai, heleg o nin; cammen neria nadh-ringas! Ai, fauth vi nin; aníra i-fauth dhîn!
Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me; it panteth after your thirst!

Fuin: nae, boe i naun galad! A boe i fóthon 'ni-fuinui! Ar eras!
'Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!

Fuin: sí ethiria i-anírad nîn sui eithel – baeth aníron.
'Tis night: now doth my longing break forth in me as a fountain, – for speech do I long.

Fuin: sí bedir ammrui in-eithelath duiol. Ar i-faer nîn eithel duiol eithro.
'Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.

Fuin: sí echuiar i-linnath melethryn. Ar i-faer nîn i-lind melethron eithro.
'Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.

Sîn ilír Elennil.
Thus sang Zarathustra

[Lúthien]

That is great. Thank you!