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Poetry with a tune: "Translation of Lyrics" » English to Italian » Entry by Nicoletta Uras (X)


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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.


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