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Poetry with a tune: "Translation of Lyrics" » English to Italian

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Composite "best" translation in English to Italian

Entries submitted in this pair were rated on a per-segment basis. Shown below is a "composite translation" constructed from the top-rated translations for each segment. Click any source or target segment to see more details.

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.
Blues della domenica mattina

Beh mi sono svegliato domenica mattina
con la testa che mi faceva male in qualsiasi modo la reggessi.
E la birra che mi sono bevuto a colazione non era male,
così me ne sono fatta un'altra per dessert.
Brancolando nell’armadio tra i vestiti
Trovo la mia camicia sporca più pulita.
Mi lavo il viso e mi pettino i capelli
Poi via giù per le scale verso il nuovo giorno.

La notte prima annebbiai la mente
Con fumo di tabacco e di canzoni.
Osservando un ragazzetto che dal niente
Calciava latte come fossero palloni.
Ho attraversato la strada
Ed ho colto l’odore domenicale di pollo fritto.
E, Dio, mi ha riportato indietro, verso qualcosa che avevo perso
Da qualche parte, in qualche modo, lungo il mio cammino.

La domenica mattina lungo i marciapiedi,
Dio mio, come vorrei essere sballato.
Perché la domenica ha qualcosa
Che riesce a farti sentire isolato.
E non c’è niente tranne il morire
Lontanamente simile alla solitudine dei tuoi passi
Sul desolato marciapiede cittadino
Mentre smaltisci la domenica mattina.

Nel parco ho visto un padre
Ondeggiare in aria una bambina che rideva.
Vicino a una scuola di catechismo mi sono fermato
E ho ascoltato le canzoni che cantavano.
Poi mi sono incamminato lungo la strada,
una campana solitaria suonava in lontananza,
e l'eco si dissolveva nel canyon
proprio come i sogni di ieri.

La domenica mattina lungo i marciapiedi,
Dio mio, come vorrei essere sballato.
Perché la domenica ha qualcosa
Che riesce a farti sentire isolato.
E non c’è niente tranne il morire
Lontanamente simile alla solitudine dei tuoi passi
Sul desolato marciapiede cittadino
Mentre smaltisci la domenica mattina.