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 some where. 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 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.
我拉開東邊窗子電腦上方的窗簾，便立刻置身於一個天藍色舞台的神聖的劇院中。我看到，有一片雲在鄰居家樹的上方飄浮了好久，那雲的形狀就像吉米·杜蘭特的大鼻子一樣，可它逐漸向北飄去，之後便無形無狀了。周圍大大小小的雲朵都隨之向北部的某個地方飄移，朵朵白雲有的前導先行，有的默然隨行，恰如世事都有主從一般。