Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Elsa Wack (#14758) |
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. | Le blues du dimanche matin Le blues du dimanche fait son entrée Ma pauv’ tête, faut pas la bouger, Pour démarrer, j’ai pris une bière Et une seconde pour le dessert. Puis j’ai fouillé dans mon armoire Sorti ma chemise la moins noire, Me suis un peu lavé, peigné, Suis descendu rencontrer la journée J’avais l’esprit dans le brouillard Des musiques et des clopes d’hier soir. J’en ai allumé une première, Un gosse shootait dans une pierre. Sur le boulevard désert, j’ai senti Une odeur de poulet rôti, Tout ça s’en va, Dieu sait comment, Tout ça se perd au fil du temps. Quand le dimanche revient encore, Oh Dieu, j’voudrais avoir une dose. Dans le dimanche y’a quelque chose Qui rend très triste le corps. C’est presque un silence de mort, Le silence si solitaire Des trottoirs d’une ville qui dort Quand le dimanche descend sur terre. Dans le parc, un papa poussait Sa gamine qui se balançait. Un chant d’église passait au vol, La chorale de ce genre d’école. Puis j’ai marché sur le boulevard Et loin, toute seule, quelque part, Une cloche sonnait, comme le passé, Comme nos vieux rêves, pâles et glacés. |