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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，我怎么能加入你们的队伍呢？”
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。
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 cowshed 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.