Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Ana Malovrh (#14954) |
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. | Nedeljsko jutro gre naokrog Zazeval sem v nedeljo zjutraj, z glavo težko kot en cent, a bolela ni. In ko pir sem spil za zajtrk, ni bilo slabo, pa sem še en'ga za slovo. Potem sem šel v omaro po svoj gvant, po najčistejšo svinjsko majo. Potem umil sem se in počesal, pa se po stopnicah odkotrljal v beli dan. Nakadil sem se večer poprej s cigaretami in songi, ki sem jih izbral. Pa pricinil sem si prvo in gledal mulca, ki piksno sem in tja je igrivo brcal. Potem sem šel čez cesto in vame buhnil vonj piščanca je ocvrtega. In vrnilo me je tja, v spomin, ki sem ga izgubil nekje nazaj. Na pločniku v nedeljskem jutru, želim si, Bog, da bi bil zadet, saj je nekaj v nedelji, da si sam kot bi bil zaklet. In nič ni takšno poleg smrti, tako osamljeno kot zvok spečih mirnih mestnih ulic, ko nedeljsko jutro gre naokrog. V parku sem videl atka, poleg punčko na gugalnici, ki jo je vihtel. In ob nedeljski šoli sem postal poslušal pesem zbora sem, ki jo je pel. Pa sem šel nazaj po ul'ci, nekje daleč stran je osamljen zvon donel, in odmeval je čez kanjon kot bledeče sanje včerajšnjega dne. |