Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by tombombadil (#14591) |
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 che se ne va Una domenica mattina mi svegliai e non riuscivo a tenere su la testa senza stare male. E la birra a colazione mi piacque tanto che me ne feci un'altra, per ‘dessert’. Poi frugai nell’armadio tra i vestiti e scovai la maglietta più pulita che avevo. Lavai il viso, mi pettinai E mi precipitai giù dalle scale per andare incontro al nuovo giorno. La sera prima, mi ero consumato fumando sigarette e strimpellando canzoni… Accesi comunque la prima sigaretta e rimasi a guardare un ragazzino che tirava calci a una lattina per gioco. Poi attraversai la strada e il profumo di pollo fritto della domenica mi inebriò. E, oddio, mi ricordò qualcosa che avevo perso da qualche parte lungo la strada, chissà perché... Domenica mattina su un marciapiede e, Signore, vorrei essere altrove… Perché c’è qualcosa, di domenica, che fa sentire soli. E niente, oltre alla morte, può far sentire tanto soli quanto il suono del marciapiede di una città addormentata, in una domenica mattina che se ne va. Nel parco vidi un papà che spingeva sull’altalena una bimbetta divertita, mi fermai vicino a una scuola domenicale e ascoltai il coro cantare. Poi proseguii lungo la strada e lontano, da qualche parte, una campana suonava solitaria e la sua eco risuonava per il canyon, come i sogni sfumati del passato… |