Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Laure Cortinchi (#14899) |
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. | L'cafard du dimanche matin Je me réveille dimanche matin, La tête entre les mains me brûle La bière du petit déj' 'tait pas mal Alors j'remets ça au dessert Dans mon placard, j'm'empêtre et passe La moins crade de mes chemises sales Je lave ma tête, me peigne les tifs Et j'fonce en bas saluer le jour. M'suis brûlé l'cerveau la nuit dernière 'vec des cigarettes et des accords à la guitare. Mais je m'en grille une et mâte un marmot Donner des coups d'lattes dans une cannette. Puis j'traîne mes grôles dans la rue Et attrape une odeur de poulet frit perdue. Et oh ça m'a ramené à queq'chose Qu'javais oublié, queq'part, le long du chemin. Encore un dimanche matin, Où j'voudrais, Dieu, être perché, Y a queq'chose dans les dimanches, Qui fait qu'on se sent si paumé. Et y a rien qui ne meurt aussi vite, Et y a rien qui ne rend si seul Que le bruit d'la ville endormie Et qu'le dimanche matin qui s'éteint. Au parc, j'croise un daron, Il balance sa p'tite fille, et elle rit, Une Eglise. Je m'arrête, Et j'écoute les bambins qui s'égosillent Puis, j'descends dans la rue, Quelque part, au loin, une cloche sonne, Ça retentit dans mon vide Comme les rêves s'évanouissant d'autrefois. |