"Wild Is The Wind"

Love me, love me, love me, say you do
Let me fly away with you
For my love is like the wind
And wild is the wind

Give me more than one caress
Satisfy this hungriness
Let the wind blow through your heart
For wild is the wind

You touch me
I hear the sound of mandolins
You kiss me
With your kiss my life begins
You're spring to me
All things to me

Don't you know you're life itself
Like a leaf clings to a tree
Oh my darling, cling to me
For we're creatures of the wind
And wild is the wind
So wild is the wind

You touch me
I hear the sound of mandolins
You kiss me
With your kiss my life begins
Dady, you're spring to me
All things to me

Don't you know you're life itself
Like a leaf clings to a tree
Oh my darling, cling to me
For we're creatures of the wind
And wild is the wind
So wild is the wind

Wild is the wind
Wild is the wind
Wild is the wind

I was anything but history. I was the wind.

The wind is us — it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields.

The wind is a living force. We Taiga call the wind Oni. It enters us all at birth and stays with us all through life. It connects us to every other creature. (p28)

The wind had blown since before time had a name and it would blow until time lost all meaning. It blew the dwindling sands of the desert across the encroaching greenness of the fields and forests, past the teeming cities with their needle spires, silver in the glaring sun. It sang a dirge for all the waste that once stretched past the edge of imagination, and it moaned a lament for all who wandered, lost and outcast and alone.

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind.

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth.

The life of this world is wind
Windblown we come, and windblown we go away.
All that we look on is windfall.
All we remember is wind.

The wind is blowing, adore the wind.

Into this Universe, and why not knowing,
Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.

..And his painting is like the wind, like a breeze blowing the paint across the canvas, so unreal, so loose and far away from the worldly life.

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!

…a flower of strange beauty, growing in a desolate spot, and blossoming in the wind...

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.