Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Nicoletta Uras (X) (#14426) |
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. | I postumi della domenica mattina Mi svegliai, domenica mattina La testa non si reggeva, ma non doleva. Bevvi una birra per colazione e non era male, Ne presi un’altra per dessert. Poi frugai a tentoni nell’armadio tra i vestiti Tra le camicie sporche scelsi la più pulita. Poi mi lavai la faccia e mi pettinai. E barcollai per le scale incontro al nuovo giorno. La notte prima mi ero fumato il cervello Con sigarette e canzoni che avevo scelto. Ma accesi la prima e guardai un bambino Giocare con una lattina che prendeva a calci. Poi camminai lungo la strada E da una casa mi arrivò l’odore domenicale del pollo fritto. E Signore, mi ricordò qualcosa che avevo perso Chissà dove, chissà come, lungo la via. Su un marciapiede della domenica mattina, sto desiderando, Signore, di essere fumato. Perché c’è qualcosa nella domenica Che fa sentire il corpo solo. E non c’è niente, a parte morire Che sia lontanamente triste come il suono Del marciapiede della città addormentata E i postumi della domenica mattina. Nel parco vidi un padre Che spingeva una bimba ridente sull’altalena. E mi fermai vicino a una chiesa E ascoltai gli inni che intonavano. Mi incamminai lungo la strada E in lontananza una campana solitaria stava suonando, Ed echeggiò nella valle, come i sogni di ieri che si stanno sciogliendo. |