四月，太平岩，我们在泉水边。你衔着一根草茎，断断续续哼着一支《土拨鼠》，这是一支欢快、幽默的小曲子，它跟四月的阳光、鸟鸣、水声是那样和谐，但从开着星星点点小黄花的草丛里望过去，你双肘撑在地上，一双又黑又大的眼睛盛满痛苦、柔情和怅惘。

April. Taiping cliff. We’re beside a spring. You twirl a stalk of grass, idly humming “The Marmot,” it’s a happy, funny little tune, fitting so well April sunlight, birdsong, the sound of water. Only, looking across the yellow flowers open like little stars amidst the grass, you are propped up on your elbows with your eyes, big and dark, distracted, full of pain and tenderness.

我们都知道你，如脚边澈清的泉水、倏忽的鱼影，朗朗可见；我们无法知道你，藏匿于“黑箱”深处的凄楚，时时引吭为优雅的男高音。

因此我曾经请求：“要哭泣你就哭泣吧，让泪水流啊，流啊，默默地……”

We both know you, like the clean spring water by our feet, the flitting shadows of the fish, clearly visible. We have no way to know you, the starkly clear, often elegantly throaty tenor hidden deep inside the “black box.”

For this I used to beg, “If you want to cry then cry, let your tears flow, tears flow, quietly…”

现在没有人为我歌唱轻轻，即使满眼是泪，繁华大街，车水马龙，哪里寻一处林子、一片草地，在真挚与渠通的日光下失声痛哭？

这个黄昏是多么陌生啊！

Now there is no one to sing lightly, lightly for me, even if my eyes are full of tears, in the bustling avenues, in the traffic, where to look for a glade, a grassy slope, to cry my eyes out under straightforward, earnest sunshine?

How unfamiliar, this dusk!

                                                                        一九七七年夏天

                                                      （Carol R. Kaufmann 译）