Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by potra (#14816) |
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. | La Domenica sta sorgendo Mi sveglio una Domenica mattina, Non ho sollievo, la testa mi fa male, La birra per colazione era divina, Allora ne prendo un’altra come finale. Brancolando nell’armadio tra i vestiti Trovo la mia camicia sporca più pulita. Mi lavo il viso e mi pettino i capelli Poi via giù per le scale verso il nuovo giorno. Ieri notte mi sono fumato il cervello Scegliendo canzoni e sigarette. La prima l’ho accesa guardando un fanciullo Che calciava una lattina con le scarpette. Poi ho attraversato la strada E ho sniffato il profumo di pollo fritto. O Signore mi ha riportato a un tempo che avevo perduto Chissà dove, chissà come. Su un marciapiede di Domenica mattina, Come vorrei essermi fatto o mio Signore, Perché c’è qualcosa nella Domenica Che fa sentire tanto solo il cuore. E all’infuori della morte Non c’è cosa più desolata del rumore Del marciapiede della città che sta sonnecchiando Mentre la Domenica sta sorgendo. Nel parco ho visto un padre Che dondolava una bambina che stava sorridendo. Mi sono fermato davanti alla scuola di catechismo E ho ascoltato le canzoni che stavano cantando. Mi sono avviato giù per strada, Lontano una campana solitaria stava rintoccando L’eco risuonava per tutto il canyon Come i sogni sbiaditi del passato. |