Janus, the Roman god of borders and thresholds, is traditionally represented as having two faces, each looking in the opposite direction. He is also the god of doors.

Mind mind brother how you walk on the cross
Your feet may slip and your soul get lost
This old ark is moverin’ moverin’ moverin’
Old ark’s a moverin’ I’m going home

The old ark she reel, the old ark she rock
The old ark’s a moving on the mountain top
The old ark a moverin’ moverin’ moverin’
Old ark a moverin’ I’m going home
The old ark a moverin’ moverin’ moverin’
Old ark a moverin’ I’m going home

You see them brother, dress so fine
They aint got Jesus on their mind
This old ark’s a moverin’ moverin’ moverin’
Old ark’s a moverin’ I’m going home

As sung by Bessie Jones, recorded by Alan Lomax, 10/12/1961
Here’s the recording:
http://research.culturalequity.org/rc-b2/get-audio-detailed-recording.do?recordingId=23462

Scirocco: the hot dry wind from the desert, also known elsewhere in the Mediterranean as Ghilbi, Jugo, and La Calima; Mistral: the hard winds from the north, said to drive Frenchmen mad by their relentlessness; the Meltemi, though springing from the same northern regions has a kinder demeanour, bringing clear air and relief from the summer heat. Zephyr is not only a breeze but a god. These are a very few of the winds considered so important they are named, and carry distinct personalities, myths, histories. So then, where are the names for the English winds? All I can think of are the Roaring forties and the Trade Winds, both of which have nothing to do with our own shores and were named by seamen far away from home. Sou’wester is not so much a name as a direction.

Have these old names been forgotten? And is this why there is also no word for the wind that collects rubbish in corners, and piles abandoned possessions in the farthest recesses of junk shops?

“Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head,
Why did summer go so quickly? Was it something that you said?
Lovers walk along a shore and leave their footprints in the sand,
Is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway or the fragment of a song,
Half-remembered names and faces but to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over you were suddenly aware,
That the autumn leaves were turning to the colour of her hair”

The Windmills of Your Mind (1968)
Marilyn and Alan Bergman

“There’s a country spread out in the sky,
a credulous carpet of rainbows
and crepuscular plants:
I move toward it just a bit haggardly,
trampling a gravedigger’s rubble still moist from the spade
to dream in a bedlam of vegetables.”

Pablo Neruda, Dream Horse

“Knock knock”
“Who’s there?”
“Cliff”
“Cliff who?”
“Ah, that’s show business”

“We seek to veil ourselves in youth’s desire.
Let the sun shine on, behind me, then!
The waterfall that splits the cliffs’ broad edge,
I gaze at with a growing pleasure, when
A thousand torrents plunge from ledge to ledge,
And still a thousand more pour down that stair,
Spraying the bright foam skywards from their beds.
And in lone splendour, through the tumult there,
The rainbow’s arch of colour, bending brightly,
Is clearly marked, and then dissolved in air,
Around it the cool showers, falling lightly.
There the efforts of mankind they mirror.
Reflect on it, you’ll understand precisely:
We live our life amongst refracted colour.”

Goethe, Faust (translated by A S Kline)

“The fairy tale tells us of the earliest arrangements that mankind made to shake off the nightmare which myth had placed upon its chest.”

Walter Benjamin, ‘The Storyteller’ 1936

“And this tattooing, had been the work of a departed prophet and seer of his island, who, by those hieroglyphic marks, had written out on his body a complete theory of the heavens and the earth, and a mystical treatise on the art of attaining truth; so that Queequeg in his own proper person was a riddle to unfold; a wondrous work in one volume; but whose mysteries not even himself could read, though his own live heart beat against them; and these mysteries were therefore destined in the end to moulder away with the living parchment whereon they were inscribed, and so be unsolved to the last.”

Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

Some folk built like this, some folk built like that
But the way I’m built, you shouldn’t call me fat
Because I’m built for comfort, I ain’t built for speed
But I got everything all the good girls need

(Willie Dixon)