小贩城市还在酣睡,他们就已奔波在路上。放下沉重的担子,裤腿上还沾着泥水和草屑。额头的汗水,与箩筐里的蔬菜水果一样新鲜。他们的吆喝,是这个城市最清脆的插曲,被噪声淹没,又倔强地浮出水面。他们的箩筐被城管踢翻,又讪笑着捡回来。他们的脸孔看上去很熟悉,他们有着和我一样泥土的肤色。也许他们曾经就是我童年的玩伴或者就与我沾亲带故。有时他们会耍小心眼,秤杆高高翘起,仍然短斤少两。说他们的水果不甜不要钱,回去一尝,还是酸得皱眉。 Hawker cities are still asleep, they have run around the road. Put down the heavy burden, trousers still stained with mud and grass debris. The sweat on my forehead is as fresh as the fruits and vegetables in the basket. Their shouting is the city’s most crisp episode, submerged by noise, but also stubbornly surfaced. Their baskets kicked over by the urban management and smiled back. Their faces look familiar, they have the earthy color of mine. Maybe they used to be my childhood playmate or my close relatives. Sometimes they will play cautious, beating up tall, still two pounds less. Do not want to say that their fruit is not sweet, go back and try, or frown.