这世界老了，负载如许沉重的爱与虚无；你歌声里的狮子也老了，犹然眷恋地斜倚在童年的菩提树下，不肯轻易入眠。
The world is getting old, laden with such heavy love and nihilism. The lion in your songs is getting old too, still leaning affectionately against the childhood linden tree, unwilling to give in to sleep.
睡眠也许是好的，当走过的岁月像一层层冰雪覆盖过人间的愁苦、磨难；睡眠里有花也许是好的，当孤寂的心依然在荒芜中寻找草绿。
Sleep may be desirable, when the past days are like layers of snow covering human misery and suffering. It may be as well to have flowers in one’s dream, when the lonely heart is still seeking green grass in the wilderness.
春花开在冬夜，热泪僵冻于湖底，这世界教我们希望，也教我们失望；我们的生命是仅有的一张薄纸，写满白霜与尘土，叹息与阴影。
Spring flowers bloom on winter nights, boiling tears freeze at the bottom of the lake. The world teaches us to hope, and disappoints us too. Our lives are the only thin sheet of paper we have, covered with frost and dust, sighs and shadows.
我们在一撕即破的纸上做梦，不因其短小、单薄而减轻重量；我们在擦过又擦过的梦里种树，并且在每一次难过的时候回到它的身边。
We dream on the fragile paper—none the lighter for all its shortness and thinness. We grow trees in the dream that has been erased time and again, and return to them each time we feel sad.
春夜听冬之旅，你沙哑的歌声是梦中的梦，带着冬天与春天一同旅行。
I am listening to Winterreise on a spring night. Your hoarse voice is the dream in my dream, traveling along with winter and spring.