Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Elena Zini (#14689) |
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 di redenzione https://soundcloud.com/elena-solo/domenica-di-redenzione Mi sveglio la domenica Con un dolore atroce nella testa. La prima birra mi fa stare meglio, La seconda mi riassesta. Poi scelgo attentamente dall'armadio La camicia meno sporca. Mi dò una pettinata, una lavata E arranco fuori dalla porta. Un'altra notte è andata A mozziconi di sigarette e di canzoni. E me ne accendo un'altra per la strada, Tra ragazzi e fannulloni. L'aroma familiare di fried chicken Con patate mi cattura. Mi riporta indietro a casa, A ciò che ho perso, che ho lasciato per paura. Questa domenica triste Vorrei fumarmela via. La domenica non serve a un uomo senza compagnia. Braccio a braccio con la morte Che mi porta via con sé Su di un marciapiede stanco Se la domenica si abbatte su di me. Nel parco c'è un papà Che fa giocare la sua bimba all'altalena E dalla chiesa viene Dei ragazzi al catechismo la preghiera Si sente risuonare in lontananza Una campana che rintocca. Rimbomba in questo canyon Come i sogni vuoti di tanti anni fa. |