佚名/Anonymous
I've opened the curtain of my east window here above the computer, and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little cloud above the neighbor's trees resembles Jimmy Durante's nose for a while, then becomes amorphous as it slips on north. Other clouds follow, big and little and tiny on their march toward whereness. Wisps of them lead or droop because there must always be leading and drooping.
The trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun. But I think trees are clouds, too, of green leaves—clouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change and dissipates like their airborne cousins.
And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations? Don't I put out tentative mists here and there? Don't I occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to? Don't I drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of compassion?
If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds, are we not all well-advised to drift, to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there? Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine?
Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One in many, are we. Let us breathe the breeze and find therein our roots in the spirit.
I close the curtain now, feeling broader, fresher. The act is over. Applause is sweeping through the trees.
電腦上方便是東側的窗戶，我把窗簾拉開。現在我坐在天與地構成的這個神聖的劇場裏，正對著遠方天藍色的舞台。鄰居家的樹上方棲息著一小片雲朵，一開始像極了吉米·杜朗特的大鼻子，後來又慢慢散開，向北悄悄**去。其他的雲彩——有大有小，潔白如雪——都跟隨著它，不知要往哪兒走。這個美麗的陣列看上去正上下起伏，因為總有那麽一兩片雲朵，要麽抬起頭來，要麽故意沉下去。