if it comes
it comes with immediacy
the eyes sag
the body caves in
on itself
and for a brief moment
there is relief
all too brief
before being blown away
by the wind
that howls outside
my conscious door

this wind

this wind that howls
outside my windows
spraying rain at times
on the terraces the balconies
this wind that moans
beyond my windows
is the only music
I listen to
and for reasons unexplained
comforts me
more than Sibelius
or Ralph Vaughan Williams
could today

an Inca song

My mother bore me,
Within a raincloud,
That I might weep with the rain,
That I might whirl with the cloud,

translated from the Quechua into French by R. & M. d’Harcourt
translated from the French into English by John Bierhorst

a Navajo poem: It Was The Wind

It was the wind that gave them life. It is the wind that comes out of our mouths now that gives us life. When this ceases to blow we die. In the skin at the tips of our fingers we see the trail of the wind; it shows us where the wind blew when our ancestors were created.

translated by Washington Matthews