拉开了房间东边电脑上方的窗帘，感觉自己仿佛身处一个神圣的剧场，天蓝的舞台展现在面前。有好一会儿，邻居家树丛上飘着一朵像杰米·杜兰特那大鼻子形状的云朵，但渐渐云朵就往北飘移，大鼻子也就散了状。周围的云，大的、小的、丁点儿的都随之往不知什么地方飘走了。缕缕白云或前行，或散去，这最自然不过了。
The trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun. But trees are clouds, too, of green leaves—clouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change and dissipate like their airborne cousins.
树梢随风轻摆，像往上攀附云朵，也像在嘲笑云朵。树肯定在想自己才是实实在在、稳稳扎根的重量级人物，而云朵只不过是积聚的水珠，只会偶尔挡住太阳的光辉。其实树也是一种云，是绿叶做的云，是不怎么动的云。树会成长、变化、老去，就跟天空的浮云一样。
And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations? Don't I put out tentative mists here and there? Don't I occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to? Don't I drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of compassion?
我不也是一朵云吗？一朵怀着种种想法、感受和抱负的云。我不是也到处作尝试，制造一个个雾团吗？我的那些异想天开不也常不经意地在人面前变成了一团奇形怪状的云吗？在感受到爱的微风和怜悯的温暖时，我不也像一朵朝北畅快游走的浮云吗？
If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds, are we not all well advised to drift, to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there? Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine?
若浮云如人，人亦如浮云，我们是否都应该飘，感受风的力量，让我们一时扎根这里，一时又把我们拔起吹走？难道我们真的就如自己想像中的那样稳如磐石吗？
Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One in many, are we. Let us breathe the breeze and find therein our roots in the spirit.
飘吧，让我！向天高歌，我要。人海里的过客，我们是。就让我们一起呼吸微风的气息，在其中寻找我们精神的根。
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