Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Andreja Dvoršek (#14939) — 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. | Spuščanje v nedeljsko jutro V nedeljo zjutraj sem se zbudil in glava me je strašansko bolela. Za zajtrk sem eno pivo popil, ker ni bilo slabo, sem ga s še enim zalil. Nato sem v omari premetal obleke in poiskal najmanj umazano srajco. Lase sem si počesal in obraz umil ter se po stopnicah počasi v nov dan odvalil. Prejšnji večer sem si bil možgane osmodil s cigaretami in pesmimi, ki sem jih bil izbral. Danes sem šele prvo prižgal in gledal otroka, ki se je s konzervo na cesti igral. Nato sem prečkal cesto in v nos mi je nedeljski pečen piščanec zadišal. O bog, v mislih sem lahko ponovno na davno izgubljeni kraj odpotoval. Na nedeljsko jutro si, moj bog, želim, da bi lahko pobegnil v omamo, saj se vedno ob nedeljah telo počuti strašno samo. Nič ni bolj samotnega, morda le smrt, kot je pusti mestni pločnik zaspan, ko se v nedeljo zjutraj spušča nov dan. V parku srečal sem očeta, ki je gugal hčerkico smejočo. Ustavil sem se pred nedeljsko mašo in poslušal množico pojočo. Nato sem se po ulici napotil, nekje daleč osamljen zvonček je zvonil, In odmeval vzdolž betona, kot sanje, ki sem jih v pivu utopil. |