“I busy too,” the little boy

“我也很忙啊，”小男孩

said, lost in his book

说，他在书里迷了路，

about a little boy, lost

书里的男孩，迷路在

in his book, with nothing

书里，他什么也没有

but a purple crayon

除了一只紫色蜡笔

and his wits to get him out.

和他救他出来的灵光。

“Nobody can sit with me,

“没有人能和我坐在一起，

I have no room.

我没有空间。

                        I busy

我忙

too. So don’t do any noise.

我也是很忙的。

We don’t want any noise

我们现在

right now.”

不想听到任何噪音。”

                  He leafs

他从头

through once, leafs twice;

翻到尾，一遍，再一遍；

the pictures, mixed with windy

插图里掺搅着如风的

sighs, grow dizzy,

叹息，渐渐让人发晕，

                            world

世界

as difficult, high-drifting

那么难懂，那么高高在上

as the two-day snow that can

像一场雪下了两天

not stop.

无法停歇。

               How will the bushes,

那些渐渐下沉的

sinking deeper and deeper,

灌木，

trees and birds, wrapt

还有大树和小鸟——二者同病相怜，

up, ever creep

到底要如何再次偷偷地

                      out again?

爬上来？

Any minute now the blizzard,

现在随时，散落其中的诡异的，

scared and wild, the animals

神圣的和野蛮的，还有动物

lost in it—O the fur,

——哦，皮毛，

the red-eyed claws, crying

红眼睛的爪，呼喊着

for their home—may burst

回家——都可能冲出书页

into the room. Try words

来到房间里。对它们试试

he’s almost learned

他差不多学过的那些

                              on them?

咒语？

He sighs, “I need a man here;

他叹气道，“我需要一个大人；

I can’t do all this work

没办法做完这些啊，

alone.”

我一个人。”

            And still, as though

而始终，仿佛

intent on reading its own

一心要阅读自己的

argument, winter continues

雄辩似的，冬天仍继续

thumbing through itself.

翻阅着它自己。