翻译成汉语 急

求英文翻译成中文~

本文中的虚拟制造方法接近于虚拟制造中的控制中心。 图1(译文略)说明了在虚拟柔性制造单元的功能模型的观点。由于活动执行制造系统描绘了一个真实的真正的工厂模式,它可能会取代真正的工厂。在所有的制造过程中,除了物质要素的虚拟制造,如设计,工艺规划,调度,是在虚拟工厂经营活动范围内。虚拟工厂活动的模拟执行是一种独立的虚拟制造系统的仿真模型。有了这个虚拟工厂,与柔性制造单元操作相关的参数(如使用,操作时间等)得益模拟。而这些结果可以为生产过程的控制和预测潜在的实际生产问题的可能性做出准备。

我躺在床上,旁边一个开放的窗口中的房子。这个房间是黑暗的,和月光是灿烂的院子外面。一切都是凹进在这些了不起的蓝色深处夏夜的青草和树叶闪闪。乔木是白色和闪烁的跨越方式,屏幕上黑色和不透明的,直到有人在罢工的比赛,小火焰,设置了在这黑暗,是激烈的光明了一会儿,然后出去; ,然后发出有香烟现在,然后可见。在这样的家庭晚上坐在那里的乔木没有灯,让夜晚把握它们,品尝凉爽的空气。但是,在家里是温暖的。这将是令人不安的热情如果不是因为同样的微风最微妙的抢断,在窗口。这是不可能的说,清洁和美味的。我听到声音从乔木,低,单调,模糊-现在,并再次笑声;有蟋蟀和青蛙的范围跨越的夜晚,到处,没有在那里。并在长期的间隔我听到过的卡车沿公路南侧的房子,在削减红色的小丘,高投签署了轮胎。有一些无法形容的孤独中,健全的,在这方面,它就像是遥远的终场哨响,一列火车,或风Keet Seel 。这是非常熟悉我,一个健全的似乎我的记忆中普遍存在的印度晚上在俄克拉何马; ,但我认为这与我无关,毕竟它很可能会成为该whir星跨越无限。门打开,房间里弹了黄灯;围绕wails条子的阴影飞跃的灯在我祖母的手。她把灯的局,失去她的长辫子,衣服睡觉。然后,她大声地祈祷在基奥瓦,站立,她闭着眼睛斗争中浓度和语重心长。她的声音还和它奇怪的是冠冕堂皇的,丰富的,有节奏,催眠。我试图抓住它,来保持清醒,但我溜走,最后进入睡眠。吾唤醒,以及语音,我父亲的声音,圈轻轻地对我心中,它是温暖的床,毯子下的沉重,并有一个拉紧风的窗户,而且冬季即将来临的。鹿都挤在Carizos ;马匹已作好对寒冷Lukachukai 。

入睡

I am lying in bed beside an open window in the house. The room is dark, and the moonlight is brilliant on the yard outside. Everything is recessed in those marvelous blue depths of the summer night; the grass and the leaves glisten. The arbor is white and gleaming across the way, the screens black and opaque until someone inside strikes a match, and the little flame, set away in that darkness, is intensely bright for a moment, then gone out; and then a cigarette glows there, now and then visible. On such evenings the family sits there in the arbor without lamps, letting the night take hold of them, savoring the cool air. But in the house it is warm. It would be uncomfortably warm were it not for that same most delicate breeze that steals in at the window. It is impossible to say how clean and delicious it is. I hear voices from the arbor, low, monotonous, indistinct--and now and again laughter; there are crickets and frogs across the range of the night, everywhere, no-where. And at long intervals I hear trucks passing along the highway on the south side of the house, in the red cut of the knoll, the high-pitched signing of the tires. There is something unspeakably lonely in that sound, and in that respect it is like the faraway whistle of a train, or the wind at Keet Seel. It is so familiar to me, a sound which seems to pervade my memory of those Indian evenings in Oklahoma; and yet I think it has nothing to do with me, after all; it might as well be the whir of a star moving across infinity. The door opens and the room flares up in yellow light; around the wails slivers of shadows leap to the lamp in my grandmother's hand. She places the lamp on a bureau, looses her long braids, dresses for bed. And then she prays aloud in Kiowa, standing, her eyes closed fight in concentration and earnestness. Her voice goes on and on; it is strange-sounding, rich, rhythmical, hypnotic. I try to hold on to it, to stay awake inside it, but I slip away at last into sleep. I awaken, and the voice, my father's voice, laps softly against my mind,and it is warm in the bed, under heavy blankets, and there is a taut wind at the windows, and the winter is coming on. Deer are huddled in the Carizos; horses are braced against the cold at Lukachukai.

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