Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation #14447 |
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. | Desolata domenica mattina Mi sveglio di domenica mattina con la testa che mi scoppia fra le mani. La birra per colazione non era male, me ne faccio un'altra per dessert. Poi nell'armadio cerco fra le camicie sporche quella più pulita. Faccia lavata e pettinato, mi fiondo per le scale incontro al giorno. Mi son fumato il cervello questa notte fra musica e sigarette. Accendo la prima di oggi mentre un bambino scalcia una lattina. Attraverso la strada e sento l'odore del pollo fritto della domenica. Dio mio, mi ricorda qualcosa che devo essermi perso da qualche parte. Per la strada di domenica mattina Dio mio, vorrei essere proprio fuori. Perché la domenica c'è qualcosa che fa sentire veramente soli. E non c'è niente che mi fa morire quanto il rumore dei passi solitari sul marciapiedi della città che dorme in una desolata domenica mattina. Nel parco un papà spinge l'altalena alla bambina che ride. Mi fermo ad ascoltare i canti religiosi della domenica. Camminando per la strada, solo una campana lontana echeggia attraverso il canalone, come i sogni di ieri che scompaiono. |