O YOU shaggy-headed banyan tree standing on the bank of the pond, have you forgotten the little child, like the birds that have nested in your branches and left you?

　　Do you not remember how he sat at the window and wondered at the tangle of your roots that plunged underground?

　　The women would come to fill their jars in the pond, and your huge black shadow would wriggle on the water like sleep struggling to wake up.

　　喂，你站在池邊的蓬頭的榕樹(shù)，你可會(huì)忘記了那小小的孩子，就像那在你的枝上筑巢又離開(kāi)了你的鳥(niǎo)兒似的孩子?

　　你不記得是他怎樣坐在窗內(nèi)，詫異地望著你深入地下的糾纏的樹(shù)根么?

　　婦人們常到池邊，汲了滿罐的水去，你的大黑影便在水面上搖動(dòng)，好像睡著的人掙扎著要醒來(lái)似的。

　　Sunlight danced on the ripples like restless tiny shuttles weaving golden tapestry.

　　Two ducks swam by the weedy margin above their shadows, and the child would sit still and think.

　　He longed to be the wind and blow through your rustling branches, to be your shadow and lengthen with the day on the water, to be a bird and perch on your top-most twig, and to float like those ducks among the weeds and shadows.

　　日光在微波上跳舞，好像不停不息的小梭在織著金色的花氈。

　　兩只鴨子挨著蘆葦，在蘆葦影子上游來(lái)游去，孩子靜靜地坐在那里想著。

　　他想做風(fēng)，吹過(guò)你的蕭蕭的枝杈;想做你的影子，在水面上，隨了日光而俱長(zhǎng);想做一只鳥(niǎo)兒，棲息在你的最高枝上;還想做那兩只鴨，在蘆葦與陰影中間游來(lái)游去。