Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Rogério Almeida (#14440) |
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 Eu acordei domingo de manhã Minha cabeça já doía sem parar E a cerveja do café, até gostei Tomei mais uma pra relaxar. Remexi no armário até pegar A camisa suja mais limpa que achei. Lavei o rosto e me penteei E fui tonto escada abaixo a ver o dia. Eu tinha fumado tanto à noite Cigarros e canções que escolhia Acendi o primeiro e vi um garoto Que brincava com uma lata. Então atravessei a rua E cheirava a frango frito aos domingos Isso lembrou algo que perdi Em algum lugar, de alguma forma por aí. Nesta calçada de domingo, Eu só queria estar dopado. É que há algo nos domingos Que te faz sentir tão só. E não há nada exceto a morte Tão solitário quanto o som De uma calçada adormecida E um domingo que se esvai. Em um parque eu vi um pai A balançar uma garotinha que sorria. Parei em uma escola dominical E lá fiquei com as canções que se ouvia. Foi então que desci a rua, E bem distante ouvi um sino solitário, Ecoando pelo cânion Como os sonhos desbotados do passado. |