听着,儿子:我同你说这番话的时候,你躺着睡着了,一只小手蜷在脸颊下,卷曲的金发湿漉漉地黏在汗津津的前额上。我独自溜进了你的房间。几分钟前,坐在书房看报的时候,一股懊恼之情席卷了我,于是我心怀内疚来到你的床前。儿子,我在想很多事:我干吗老对你发脾气?穿衣上学的时候,你用毛巾草草蹭了把脸,我就责骂你。你不擦鞋我也训斥你。你把自己的东西丢了一地,我又大吼着向你发火。 Listen, son: When I spoke to you, you fell asleep, a little hand curled under your cheeks, the curly blonde wetly sticking on the sweat-Jin’s forehead. I slipped into your room alone. A few minutes ago, sitting in the study read a newspaper, an annoyance swept me, so I feel guilty came to your bed. Son, I was thinking a lot of things: why do I get angry at you? When I was dressing in school, you rubbed your face with a towel and I scolded you. I do not scuff you You lost one of your things, and I roared at you again.