Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by mjeanalmeida (#14485) |
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. | Manhã de domingo avançada Acordei numa manhã de domingo Mesmo sem dores, mal segurava a cabeça. Soube-me bem a cerveja do pequeno almoço, Então bebi outra à sobremesa. Depois vasculhei no roupeiro E encontrei a minha camisa suja mais decente. Depois lavei a cara e penteei-me E tropecei nas escadas até ver o dia de frente. Tinha fumado pela noite fora Cigarros e músicas que ia encontrando. Mas acendi o primeiro olhando um miúdo Brincando com uma lata, pontapeando. Depois atravessei a rua E captei o cheiro de galinha a fritar num domingo. Oh, meu Deus..!, recordou-me algo que tinha perdido Não sei onde, nem como, pelo caminho. Num passeio matinal de domingo, Dou por mim, meu Deus, a desejar-me drogado; Porque há algo num domingo Que faz um corpo sentir-se desamparado. E não há nada que se compare À solidão do som na calçada De uma cidade que dorme Numa manhã de domingo avançada. No parque vi um pai com uma menina Que ria enquanto se balouçavam. E parei junto a uma escola de domingo A ouvir as canções que entoavam. Depois segui pela rua abaixo, E algures lá longe ouvi um sino Que ecoava no vale profundo Os sonhos desvanecidos de outrora. |