“我也很忙啊，”小男孩

“I busy too,” the little boy

说，他在书里迷了路，

said, lost in his book

书里的男孩，迷路在

about a little boy, lost

书里，他什么也没有

in his book, with nothing

除了一只紫色蜡笔

but a purple crayon

和他救他出来的灵光。

and his wits to get him out.

“没有人能和我坐在一起，

“Nobody can sit with me,

我没有空间。

I have no room.

我忙

                        I busy

我也是很忙的。

too. So don’t do any noise.

我们现在

We don’t want any noise

不想听到任何噪音。”

right now.”

他从头

                  He leafs

翻到尾，一遍，再一遍；

through once, leafs twice;

插图里掺搅着如风的

the pictures, mixed with windy

叹息，渐渐让人发晕，

sighs, grow dizzy,

世界

                            world

那么难懂，那么高高在上

as difficult, high-drifting

像一场雪下了两天

as the two-day snow that can

无法停歇。

not stop.

那些渐渐下沉的

               How will the bushes,

灌木，

sinking deeper and deeper,

还有大树和小鸟——二者同病相怜，

trees and birds, wrapt

到底要如何再次偷偷地

up, ever creep

爬上来？

                      out again?

现在随时，散落其中的诡异的，

Any minute now the blizzard,

神圣的和野蛮的，还有动物

scared and wild, the animals

——哦，皮毛，

lost in it—O the fur,

红眼睛的爪，呼喊着

the red-eyed claws, crying

回家——都可能冲出书页

for their home—may burst

来到房间里。对它们试试

into the room. Try words

他差不多学过的那些

he’s almost learned

咒语？

                              on them?

他叹气道，“我需要一个大人；

He sighs, “I need a man here;

没办法做完这些啊，

I can’t do all this work

我一个人。”

alone.”

而始终，仿佛

            And still, as though

一心要阅读自己的

intent on reading its own

雄辩似的，冬天仍继续

argument, winter continues

翻阅着它自己。

thumbing through itself.