Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Václav Pinkava (#14360) — 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. | Sešup nedělního rána Já v neděli se probral, z hlavy škopek, co krk málem neunes. Posnídal jsem pivo, k tomu další dát jak moučník, to bych snes. Pak jsem po košili šátral v hadrech, z nevypranejch vzal tu čistou, víc. Ošplích tvář a prohráb, zakop po schodech - a padal světu vstříc. Vyuzenej mozek, včera pařil jsem a na kytaru hrál. Škrt jsem první žváro, jinej škrt si plecháč kolem načutal. Přes ulici přejdu, větřím osmažený kuře, sváteční. V duchu, Pane, návrat k dávnejm časům, fuč, co byly výtečný. Do neděle chodník, Pane, vede, táhne do hry namol, zas. S kým se o den dělit, když je jeden jenom jeden, celej čas... Osamělej nadosmrti, na sto honů vyprázdněnej den. Plnou parou prázdna táhne sem nedělní sešup, neviděn. V parku taťka s dcerkou, která na houpačce radost netají. U nedělní školy jsem se zaposlouchal, co si zpívají. Zas jsem šel svou cestou, slyšel o samotě v dálce klimbat zvon, umíráček snění ... dutá ozvěna, co mizí za kaňon. |