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.
我拉开东边窗子电脑上方的窗帘，便立刻置身于一个天蓝色舞台的神圣的剧院中。我看到，有一片云在邻居家树的上方飘浮了好久，那云的形状就像吉米·杜兰特的大鼻子一样，可它逐渐向北飘去，之后便无形无状了。周围大大小小的云朵都随之向北部的某个地方飘移，朵朵白云有的前导先行，有的默然随行，恰如世事都有主从一般。