Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by cristina loureiro (#14636) |
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. | Quando chega domingo de manhã Enfim, acordei domingo de manhã Doía-me cada vez que segurava a cabeça E a cerveja ao pequeno-almoço não foi nada má, Então bebi outra como sobremesa. Depois vasculhei as roupas do armário E encontrei a camisa suja mais limpa. Depois lavei o rosto e penteei o cabelo E desci as escadas aos tropeções para me encontrar com o dia. Tinha enublado a cabeça na noite anterior Com cigarros e canções que fui dedilhando. Mas ao acender o primeiro deparei-me com um rapaz Que dava pontapés numa lata brincando. Atravessei a rua E defrontei-me com o cheiro a frango frito dos domingos. Meu Deus, como me fez reviver aquilo que perdi Algures, de alguma maneira pela vida fora. Neste passeio ao domingo de manhã, Quem me dera, meu Deus, estar pedrado. Porque aos domingos há sempre algo Que faz o corpo sentir-se só. E só a morte supera A solidão trazida pelo som Do passeio adormecido da cidade Quando chega domingo de manhã No parque um pai Balançava uma menina que sorria. Parei diante da igreja E escutei as canções que cantavam na catequese. Depois desci a rua, E um sino tocava solitário algures ao longe, Ecoando no desfiladeiro Como se fossem os sonhos de ontem a desaparecer. |