Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Juan Pablo Sans (#14881) |
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. | En una mañana de domingo La mañana del domingo yo me alcé Y la cabeza mía del dolor me estallaba. La birra del desayuno me sentó bien, Así que otra más yo me eché. Luego hurgué en el armario Y de entre mi ropa mi mejor andrajo yo encontré. Lavé mi cara y el cabello me arreglé, Y por los escalones yo volé. La noche antes mi mente nublada quedó Con cigarros y canciones que alternaba. Pero prendí el primero y vi a un niñito Jugar con una lata que pateaba. Luego caminé la vía Y el olor de un pollo de domingo distinguí. Y me vinieron recuerdos de cosas Que en algún momento de la vida yo perdí. Caminaba una mañana de domingo, y deseaba estar ennotado. Pues algo los domingos te embraga de abyecta soledad. Y solo la señora muerte Iguala el sonido sepulcral De una ciudad que duerme En una mañana de domingo. En el parque había un papá Que a su sonriente hijita él columpiaba. Y en una escuela un domingo me detuve Y oí las canciones que entonaban. Luego bajé la vía, Y una distante y solitaria campana sonaba, Retumbando en el cañón Cual lejanos sueños ya de antaño. |