Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation #14573 |
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. | Domenica mattina avanza Beh, mi svegliai, domenica mattina, non c’era modo di tenere la testa, che non faceva male. La birra a colazione non era stata male, così ne scolai un’altra per dessert. Poi brancolai tra i vestiti dell’armadio, per trovare una camicia pulita, tra le meno sporche. Lavai la faccia, sistemai i capelli e giù, incespicai per le scale per imbattermi nel giorno. La sera prima mi ero fumato il cervello tra sigarette e canzoni. Ma accesi la prima e vidi un bambino che dava calci ad una lattina. Poi, passeggiando per strada, carpii l'odore domenicale di pollo, fritto da qualcuno. E, Dio mio, mi portò indietro, a qualcosa che avevo perso, da qualche parte, in qualche modo, lungo la strada. Domenica mattina, sono su un marciapiede, e, Dio mio, vorrei essere fatto. Perché la domenica c'è qualcosa che fa sentire sola una persona. E non ci vuole niente a morire, ma non si sarebbe mai tanto soli quanto il marciapiede di una città che dorme e alla domenica mattina che avanza. Nel parco vidi un papà che spingeva una bimbetta ridente sull’altalena. E mi bloccai accanto ad una scuola domenicale ad ascoltar canzoni. Poi proseguii a testa bassa per la strada, E da qualche parte, lontano, sentii una campana solitaria echeggiare per il canyon come avevano fatto, prima di sparire, i sogni di ieri. |