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He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute.
吹奏完毕，他徐徐地放下握笛子的双手。
As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing.
笛声一停，场上紧接着出现一阵寂静，这似乎成了一个信号，片刻寂静之后，立刻便听到起跑线附近的一个亭子里响起了一阵威严、低沉、尖锐的号声。
The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer.
那些在等候的马一听号声，便人立而起，有的还发出嘶叫声。
Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses'necks and soothe them, whispering, Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope They begin to form in rank along the starting line.
那些青年骑手们此时一本正经地抚摸着马颈，轻声细语地安慰道：安静点，安静点，我的美人儿，我的希望…他们开始在起跑线上列队。
The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun.
聚集在赛马跑道沿线的人群东倒西歪，宛如原野上的一片花草迎风起伏着。夏庆节正式开始了。
Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city,the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.
你相信了吗?上面描述的这种节庆，这个城市以及欢乐景象，你都觉得可信了吗?不可信?那么，请让我再讲述一件事情吧。
In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room.
在奥米勒斯城某幢漂亮的公共建筑下面的地下室里，也许是在一所宽敞的私宅的地窖里，有一个房间。
It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar.
这房间有个上了锁的门，但没有窗户。一丝充满尘埃的光线从有隙缝的板墙里透过来。
In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket.
这光线间接来自地窖某处一个结满蛛网的窗户。小房间的一个墙角，靠近一个生锈的水桶。
