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Poetry with a tune: "Translation of Lyrics" » English to Portuguese (EU) » Entry by Marta Araújo


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Translation by Marta Araújo (#14812)

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.
Bem, acordei no domingo de manhã
Sem um jeito de segurar a cabeça que não doesse.
E a cerveja que bebi ao pequeno-almoço não era má,
Por isso bebi mais uma de sobremesa.
Depois remexi as roupas do meu armário
E encontrei a minha camisa mais limpa.
Depois lavei a cara e penteei o cabelo
E desci as escadas aos tropeções para ver o dia.

Tinha esfumado a mente na noite anterior
Com os cigarros e as músicas que escolhera.
Mas acendi o primeiro do dia e observei uma criança
A brincar com uma lata que pontapeava.
Depois atravessei a rua
E chegou-me o cheiro de domingo do frango frito de alguém.
E, Deus, isso levou-me para algo que tinha perdido
Algures, não sei como, no caminho.

Num domingo de manhã num passeio,
Desejando por Deus que estivesse pedrado.
Porque há algo num domingo
Que faz o corpo sentir-se só.
E não há nada, além da morte,
Que seja tão solitário como o som
De um passeio de uma cidade a dormir
E de uma manhã de domingo a acontecer.

Vi no parque um pai
Com uma menina que se ria e ele balançava.
E parei na catequese
E ouvi as músicas que cantavam.
Depois continuei a andar pela rua,
E algures lá longe tocava um sino solitário,
E soava pelo desfiladeiro
Como os sonhos esfumados de ontem.


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