This narrative begins with Zarathustra deciding to travel to the “Island of Graves,” where the graves of his youth lie. He resolves in his heart to carry an evergreen wreath of life to that silent island, symbolizing a tribute to his past.

Zarathustra addresses the visions and apparitions of his youth, recalling moments of love and divine experiences that have died swiftly. He reminisces about these treasured memories as though they were his deceased, emitting a sweet fragrance that moves and unsettles his solitary voyage across the sea.

He considers himself the richest and most enviable, despite his solitude, because he once possessed these profound experiences, and they still possess him. He likens these past joys to “rose apples” that fell to him from a tree—a metaphor for rare and precious gifts.

Zarathustra laments that he and these “beloved wonders” were meant to remain close. Unlike shy birds, they came to him confidently, as trustworthy beings to a trustworthy one. They were made for loyalty and tender eternities, yet now he must confront their infidelity, not knowing any other name for their departure.

He mourns that his dearest possessions had to die young and too soon because his enemies targeted what was most vulnerable in him. These beloved aspects were as delicate as a downy skin or a smile that fades at a glance. He confronts his foes, declaring that they have done worse than any murder by taking something irretrievable from him.

Zarathustra accuses his enemies of killing the visions and wonders of his youth, his companions—the blissful spirits. He lays down a wreath and a curse in their memory, expressing that they shortened his eternal experiences to mere fleeting moments, like a tone breaking in the cold night.

He recounts how his purity once declared that all beings should be divine to him, but his enemies assailed him with filthy specters, driving away that pure moment. His youthful wisdom proclaimed that all days should be holy, but his adversaries stole his nights, turning them into sleepless torment.

He sought auspicious signs, but they led a monstrous owl across his path, dampening his tender desires. Committing to renounce all disgust, his closest ones were turned into festering boils by his foes, undermining his noblest vows.

Consistently, his enemies poisoned his best honey and the efforts of his finest bees. They sent shameless beggars to exploit his generosity and insolent ones to strain his compassion, wounding his virtue’s faith.

When he offered his most sacred sacrifices, their “piety” quickly overshadowed his with their more lavish offerings, suffocating his sanctity in the smoke of their fat. Once, he wished to dance as never before, transcending all heavens, but they persuaded his beloved singer to play a dreadful, somber tune that killed his ecstasy.

Only in dance does Zarathustra know how to speak metaphors of the highest things, yet now his greatest metaphor remains unspoken within his limbs, his highest hope unexpressed and unredeemed. All the visions and consolations of his youth have died.

He questions how he endured and overcame such wounds, pondering how his soul rose again from these graves. There exists within him something invulnerable and unburiable—a will that can shatter stones. This will, silent and unchanging through the years, continues its journey on his feet, steadfast and unassailable.

Zarathustra hails his will as the destroyer of all graves, proclaiming that where there are graves, there are resurrections.