When Followers Lose Their Fire — Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Zarathustra returns to a city he once loved and finds the meadow gray. The young hearts who once ran with brave steps now look tired and ordinary. They tell him, We have again become pious. They once lifted their legs like dancers when his wisdom laughed at them; now they bend down and creep toward the cross. He wonders if loneliness swallowed him and left them without a trumpet call to follow.

He watches them gather in small groups with soft prayers and empty spiritual games. Some fish in ponds with no fish. Some follow sad pipers, hymn poets, and spooky room-watchers who wait for spirits that never come. They chase comfort instead of creating their own values. Zarathustra sees that most people are cowardly when real change asks for steady courage, and he will not pretend the many-colored spring will last.

At night he hears two watchmen doubt whether God still cares for his children. Their talk is hollow and old, yet they blow sorrowful horns over it. Zarathustra laughs until his heart nearly breaks. He remembers how the old gods laughed themselves to death when one jealous god claimed to be the only god. He will not bind his heart to followers who fade when the work gets hard. He is almost home to his cave and his animals.