Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Maria Teresa Borges de Almeida (#14477) — Winner |
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. | Manhã de domingo Bem, acordei domingo de manhã, Sem jeito de a cabeça deixar de pesar. E como a cerveja como pequeno-almoço não me caiu mal, Bebi outra como sobremesa. No armário procurei às apalpadelas algo para vestir E enfiei das camisas sujas a mais limpa. Lavei a cara, penteei a crina, Desci as escadas aos tropeções ao encontro do dia. Dera cabo da “bola” na noite anterior, Com cigarros e as canções que dedilhara. Mas acendi o primeiro e vi um miúdo Que aos pontapés com uma lata brincava. Depois atravessei a rua E o cheiro a frango frito ao domingo, Fez-me recordar, Senhor, algo que perdera Algures, sei lá como, pelo caminho. Numa calçada, numa manhã de domingo, Mas quem me dera, Senhor, estar “pedrado”, Porque no domingo há algo Que faz um corpo sentir-se só. E mais nada, afora o túmulo, É tão solitário quanto o soar Da calçada de uma cidade adormecida, E da manhã de domingo a passar. No parque vi um pai A empurrar o baloiço de uma pequenita que ria. E parei junto a uma aula de catequese A ouvir a música que daí saía. Continuei pela rua abaixo Algures ao longe um sino solitário tocava E pelo vale ecoava Como os velhos sonhos que se esfumam. |
Discussion about Poetry with a tune: "Translation of Lyrics" in English to Portuguese (EU) - Entry #14477 | |||||||||
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Mario Freitas Brazil Local time: 23:23 Member (2014) English to Portuguese + ...
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