I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, and Truth sets Fact free from its fetters.
Why are those tears in your eyes, my child?
How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing?
You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing--is that why they call you dirty?
O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it has smudged its face with ink?
For every little trifle they blame you, my child. They are ready to find fault for nothing.
You tore your clothes while playing--is that why they call you untidy?
O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning that smiles through its ragged clouds?
Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
They make a long list of your misdeeds. Everybody knows how you love sweet things--is that why they call you greedy?
O, fie! What then would they call us who love you?
Say of him what you please, but I know my child's failings.
I do not love him because he is good, but because he is my little child.
How should you know how dear he can be when you try to weigh his merits against his faults?
When I must punish him he becomes all the more a part of my being.
When I cause his tears to come my heart weeps with him.
I alone have a right to blame and punish, for he only may chastise who loves.
Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.
I only said, "When in the evening the round full moon gets entangled among the branches of that Kadam tree, couldn't somebody catch it?"
But dada?[elder brother] laughed at me and said, "Baby, you are the silliest child I have ever known. The moon is ever so far from us, how could anybody catch it?"
I said, "Dada?how foolish you are! When mother looks out of her window and smiles down at us playing, would you call her far away?"
Still said, "You are a stupid child! But, baby, where could you find a net big enough to catch the moon with?"
I said, "Surely you could catch it with your hands."
But dada?laughed and said, "You are the silliest child I have known. If it came nearer, you would see how big the moon is."
I said, "Dada? what nonsense they teach at your school! When mother bends her face down to kiss us does her face look very big?"
But still dada?says, "You are a stupid child."
CLOUDS AND WAVES
Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me--
"We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon.
I ask, "But, how am I to get up to you?" They answer, "Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds."
"My mother is waiting for me at home," I say. "How can I leave her and come?"
Then they smile and float away.
But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will be the blue sky.
The folk who live in the waves call out to me--
"We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know not where we pass."
I ask, "But, how am I to join you?" They tell me, "Come to the edge of the shore and stand with your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves."
I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the evening--how can I leave her and go?"
Then they smile, dance and pass by.
But I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with laughter.
And no one in the world will know where we both are.
妈妈，住在云端的人对我唤道—— “我们从醒的时候游戏到白日终止。 “我们与黄金色的曙光游戏，我们与银白色的月亮游戏。” 我问道：“但是，我怎么能够上你那里去呢？” 他们答道：“你到地球的边上来，举手向天，就可以被接到云端里来了。” “我妈妈在家里等我呢，”我说，“我怎么能离开她而来呢？” 于是他们微笑着浮游而去。 但是我知道一件比这个更好的游戏，妈妈。 我做云，你做月亮。 我用两只手遮盖你，我们的屋顶就是青碧的天空。 住在波浪上的人对我唤道—— “我们从早晨唱歌到晚上；我们前进又前进地旅行，也不知我们所经过的是什么地方。” 我问道：“但是，我怎么能加入你们队伍里去呢？” 他们告诉我说：“来到岸旁，站在那里，紧闭你的两眼，你就被带到波浪上来了。” 我说：“傍晚的时候，我妈妈常要我在家里——我怎么能离开她而去呢！” 于是他们微笑着，跳舞着奔流过去。 但是我知道一件比这个更好的游戏。 我是波浪，你是陌生的岸。 我奔流而进，进，进，笑哈哈地撞碎在你的膝上。 世界上就没有一个人会知道我们俩在什么地方。
THE CHAMPA FLOWER
Supposing I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading Ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child?
When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say then.
假如我变了一朵金色花①，只是为了好玩，长在那棵树的高枝上，笑哈哈地在风中摇摆，又在新生的树叶上跳舞，妈妈，你会认识我么？ 你要是叫道：“孩子，你在哪里呀？”我暗暗地在那里匿笑，却一声儿不响。 我要悄悄地开放花瓣儿，看着你工作。 当你沐浴后，湿发披在两肩，穿过金色花的林荫，走到你做祷告的小庭院时，你会嗅到这花的香气，却不知道这香气是从我身上来的。 当你吃过中饭，坐在窗前读《罗摩衍那》②，那棵树的阴影落在你的头发与膝上时，我便要投我的小小的影子在你的书页上，正投在你所读的地方。 但是你会猜得出这就是你的小孩子的小影子么？ 当你黄昏时拿了灯到牛棚里去，我便要突然地再落到地上来，又成了你的孩子，求你讲个故事给我听。 “你到哪里去了，你这坏孩子？” “我不告诉你，妈妈。”这就是你同我那时所要说的话了。
①金色花，原名champa，亦作Champak，学名Michclia Champaca，印度圣树，木兰 花属植物，开金黄色碎花。译名亦作“瞻波伽”或“占博伽”。 ②《罗摩衍那》（Ramayana）为印度叙事诗，相传系蚁垤（Valmiki）所作。今传本 形式约为公元二世纪间所形成。全书分为七卷，共二万四千颂，皆系叙述罗摩生平之作。 罗摩即罗摩犍陀罗。十车王之子，悉多之夫。他于第二世（Treta yaga）入世，为毗湿 奴神第七化身。印人看他为英雄，有崇拜他如神的。