Fate hands me a sheet of paper,white beyond argument,and weighs its corner down with yesterdayas my copybook.
命运递来一张纸，
白得不由分说；
又把昨天压在纸角，
当我的字帖。
I turn the copybook face down —mountains can be written lower, roads drawn farther,and when my writing reaches a cliff, I don’t lay down the pen:right at the paper’s edgeI add a pair of wings.
我把字帖倒扣过来——
山可以写低，路可以画远，
写到悬崖，也不搁笔：
就在纸的尽头，
添上一双鸟的羽翼。
“Fate only lays out the paper. How I write is not for it to sign.”
“命运只管铺纸，我怎样落笔，由不得它署名。”