All the days of the week
Are empty and sound hollow
Much worse than the week
There is the pretentious Sunday
Who wants to appear rosy
And play the generous
The necessary Sunday
Like a blessed day
I hate Sundays!
I hate Sundays!
In the There are crowds in the street
Millions of passers-by
This flowing crowd
With an indifferent air
This walking crowd
As at a funeral
A Sunday Funeral
Who has been dead for a long time
I hate Sundays!
I hate Sundays!
You work all week and Sunday too
br/>Maybe that's why I'm biased
Darling, if only you were near me
I would be ready to love everything that I don't like
Spring Sundays
All flanked by sun
Which fade away in brilliance
The worries of the day before
Sunday full of blue sky
br/>And children's laughter
Of lovers' walks
To timid oaths
And of flowers on the branches
And of flowers on the branches
And among the crowd
People, who, without hurrying
Walk through the streets
We would slip in
Both, hand in hand
Without trying to know
br/>What there will be tomorrow
Having no hope
Only other Sundays
Only other Sundays
And all honest people
Who we say are right-thinking
And those who are not
And who want us to believe them
And who go to church
Because it's the custom
Who change their shirts
And put on a nice suit
Those who sleep twenty hours
Because nothing stops them
Those who relax early wind
To go fishing
Those for whom it is the day
To go to the cemetery
And those who make love
Because they have nothing to do
Would envy our happiness
Just as I envy theirs
To have Sundays
To believe in Sundays
To love Sundays
When I hate Sundays