Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation #14380 |
Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down Well, I woke up Sunday morning With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt. And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, So I had one more for dessert. Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes And found my cleanest dirty shirt. Then I washed my face and combed my hair And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day. I'd smoked my mind the night before With cigarettes and songs I'd been picking. But I lit my first and watched a small kid Playing with a can that he was kicking. Then I walked across the street And caught the Sunday smell of someone's frying chicken. And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost Somewhere, somehow along the way. On a Sunday morning sidewalk, I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned. 'Cause there's something in a Sunday That makes a body feel alone. And there's nothing short a' dying That's half as lonesome as the sound Of the sleeping city sidewalk And Sunday morning coming down. In the park I saw a daddy With a laughing little girl that he was swinging. And I stopped beside a Sunday school And listened to the songs they were singing. Then I headed down the street, And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing, And it echoed through the canyon Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday. On a Sunday morning sidewalk, I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned. 'Cause there's something in a Sunday That makes a body feel alone. And there's nothing short a' dying That's half as lonesome as the sound Of the sleeping city sidewalk And Sunday morning coming down. | A chegada da manhã de Domingo Bem, acordei no Domingo de manhã Não havia maneira de segurar a cabeça sem doer. E a cerveja que bebi ao pequeno-almoço não era má, Por isso bebi mais uma à sobremesa. Depois procurei no armário por entre a minha roupa E encontrei a minha camisa suja mais limpa. Depois lavei a cara e penteei o cabelo E tropecei escadas abaixo para cumprimentar o dia. Tinha fumado a minha mente na noite anterior Com cigarros e canções que tinha andado a escolher. Mas acendi o primeiro cigarro e olhei para um miúdo A brincar com uma lata que estava a pontapear. Depois atravessei a rua E apanhei o cheiro de Domingo na galinha frita de alguém. E, meu Deus, foi um regresso a algo que tinha perdido Algures, de alguma forma, pelo caminho. Num passeio de Domingo de manhã, Eu gostaria, Deus meu, de estar pedrado Porque há algo num Domingo Que faz um corpo sentir-se só. E não há nada excepto a morte Que seja sequer tão solitário como o som Do passeio citadino adormecido E a chegada da manhã de Domingo. Vi um papá no parque Com uma menina risonha que ele embalava. E parei ao lado da catequese E ouvi as canções que estavam a cantar. Depois desci a rua, E algures, distante, um sino solitário repicava, E ecoava pelo desfiladeiro Como os sonhos desaparecidos de ontem. |