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By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast — a cold wind.
--
"Spring and All"

 

William Carlos Williams

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I shoot a thought into the future, and it flies like an arrow, through my lifetime. And beyond.
If I ever come back as a tree, or a crow, or even the wind-blown dust; find me on the ancient road in the song when the wires are hushed. Hurry on and remember me, as I'll remember you. Far above the golden clouds, the darkness vibrates.
The earth is blue.
And everything about it is a love song. Everything about it.

 

Paul Simon

 

As clouds are blown away by the wind, the thirst for material pleasures will be driven away by the utterance of the Lord's name.

 

Sarada Devi

 

Climb the steep Cold Mountain way
Roads to Cold Mountain are many and never ending
The valleys are long and deep, the peaks piled high
The streams are wide, the grass is thick
The moss is slippery though there is no rain
The pines sigh though there is no wind
Who can escape the snares of the world
And come to sit with me among the white clouds?

 

Han Shan

 

You're out in the cold,
Sometimes,
As far as you can see,
Misty.
You want to run
Into the sun,
The road is lost,
Sand shifty.
But suddendly, out of the blue,
Some kind of magic
Pushes you through!
You don't know when,
How or why,
But someday can take off, fly!

 

Mike Oldfield

 

About a hundred and ninety-four feet away from our house (in Armenia, fh) on the road to the spring, my father had a little garden with a few apple trees which had retired from giving fruit. There was a ground constantly in shade where grew incalculable amounts of wild carrots, and porcupines had made their nests. There was a blue rock half buried in the black earth with a few patches of moss placed here and there like fallen clouds. But from where came all the shadows in constant battle like the lancers of Paolo Ucello’s painting? This garden was identified as the Garden of Wish Fulfilment and often I had seen my mother and other village women opening their bosoms and taking out their soft breasts in their hands to rub them on the rock. Above this all stood an enormous tree all bleached under the sun, the rain, the cold, and deprived of leaves. This was the Holy Tree. I myself don’t know why this tree was holy but I had witnessed many people, whoever did pass by, that would tear voluntarily a strip of their clothes and attach this to the tree. Thus through many years of the same ac, like a veritable parade of banners under the pressure of wind all these personal inscriptions of signatures, very softly to my innocent ear used to give echo to the sh-h—h-sh—h of silver leaves of the poplars.

 

Arshile Gorky