Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation #14581 |
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. | Domingo a chegar Acordei no Domingo de manhã E como a cerveja do pequeno-almoço não era má, Bebi outra para rematar. Mergulhei no meu roupeiro, chafurdei nas roupas Tirei a o mais limpo da roupa suja. Lavei a cara e penteei-me E deslizei das escadas para a porta. Fumei como nunca ontem Com cigarros e canções em que pegava. Dei o primeiro golo e reparei numa criança Que pontapeava uma lata. Atravessei então a rua E senti cheiro a frango assado. E Deus, transportou-me para um passado Nalgum lugar, ou momento da minha vida. Numa manhã de domingo no passeio, Tomara eu estar pedrado. Porque há algo ao domingo Que me faz sentir sozinho. E nunca morrer foi tão difícil Como a solidão De um som num passeio adormecido E a manhã de domingo a chegar. No parque um pai com uma sorridente menina dançava. Parei em frente à catequese e ouvi o que cantavam. Fui então pela rua abaixo, E ao longe tocava um sino abandonado, Que na ravina ecoava como os sonhos De ontem e para sempre esquecidos. |