Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Giannina Spanu (#14506) |
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 volge al dunque Mi svegliai una domenica mattina Con la testa oltremodo dolorante. E trovando la birra sopraffina, Dopo la prima una seconda fu allettante. Arrancai dunque verso l'armadio a stento E scelsi la camicia più decente. Lavato, pettinato e chioma al vento Caracollai verso quel dì fremente. La notte prima annebbiai la mente Con fumo di tabacco e di canzoni. Osservando un ragazzetto che dal niente Calciava latte come fossero palloni. E una volta la strada attraversata Tutto d'un tratto di pollo fritto il profumo. Il ricordo di una cosa ormai andata Da qualche parte, in qualche modo andato in fumo. E in quest'andare di domenica mattina, Bramo, Signore, il torpore della droga. Trovando in questo giorno un qualcosina Che porta al corpo solitudine che affoga. E nulla esiste eccettuato il morente Di solitario come un suon qualunque Nel camminar per la città dormiente E domenica mattina volge al dunque. Ed a quel punto vedo un padre al parco La sua bimba ridente in altalena. Accanto a un oratorio trovo un varco Per ascoltarli cantar di buona lena. M'incammino così giù per la strada, Tocchi sbiaditi, è una campana non vicina. E nel dirupo quel suono riecheggiava Come i miei sogni di una notte prima. |