Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Sílvia Marques (#14560) |
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 a surgir Bem, acordei no Domingo de manhã Sem conseguir segurar a cabeça que não doía. A cerveja que bebera ao pequeno-almoço não era má, por isso, bebi uma mais à sobremesa. Depois, tateei pelas minhas roupas no roupeiro e encontrei a minha blusa suja mais limpa. De seguida, lavei o rosto e penteei o cabelo e desci pelas escadas ao encontro do dia. Tinha fumado a minha mente na noite anterior com cigarros e cantigas que havia escolhido, mas acendi o meu primeiro do dia e observei uma criança pequena a brincar com uma lata que pontapeava. Atravessei a rua e deparei-me com o cheiro de Domingo na galinha frita de alguém. E, Senhor, isso levou-me de volta para algo que havia perdido, algures, de alguma forma, ao longo do meu caminho. Num passeio de uma manhã de Domingo, desejava, Senhor, estar pedrado, porque existe algo neste dia que faz o corpo sentir-se só. Não há nada tão melancólico e que seja metade tão solitário como o som do passeio da cidade adormecida com a manhã de Domingo a surgir. Vi um pai no parque com uma menina pequena que ria e se balançava. Depois, parei junto de uma escola dominical para ouvir as canções que ecoavam. Continuei pela rua e, algures, num sítio longínquo, tocava um sino solitário que ressoava pelo desfiladeiro como os sonhos desaparecidos do passado. |