Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Guaracy Santana (#14860) |
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. | Manhã de domingo terminando Então, despertei domingo de manhã Sem ter onde tocar a cabeça sem doer E já que a cerveja do “café da manhã” desceu bem Tomei mais uma de sobremesa também. Então remexi meu armário roupas adentro Pela mais limpa das camisas imundas. Joguei uma água na cara, me penteei E, aos trancos, fui escada abaixo e o dia encontrei. Tinha embaçado minha mente na noite anterior Com cigarros e canções que andei catando. Mas acendi o meu primeiro e observei um menino Que brincava, uma lata chutando. Atravessei a rua então E capturei o cheiro dominical de frango sendo frito. O que me trouxe lembranças, Senhor, de algo que eu perdi Em algum lugar, de alguma forma, pelo caminho. Na calçada matinal dominical Desejaria, Senhor, estar chapadão. Porque há algo no domingo Que traz ao corpo a solidão. E nada há mais próximo da morte Quase tão solitário quanto o som brando Da calçada de uma cidade que dorme E a manhã de domingo terminando. No parque eu vi um pai Com uma risonha menina que ele estava balançando. Eu parei ao lado de uma escola Dominical E ouvi as canções que eles estavam cantando. Me dirigi rua abaixo, E, em algum lugar distante um sino solitário tocando, Ecoava pela ravina de edifícios Como os fugitivos sonhos de outrora. |