Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation #14969 |
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 se budi Sem se zbudil v nedeljo zjutraj in nisem vedel, kam bi z glavo, da bi nehala boleti. Tisti pir za zajtrk je bil kar okej, pa sem spil še enega za okus. Potem sem brskal po omari, iskal cunje, smrdeča srajca? V redu bo. Ko splahnil sem ta fris, se počesal, sem opotekel po stopnicah se v nov dan. Um sem si zakadil noč poprej s čiki in svojim izborom pesmi. Prižgem prvega in gledam otroka s pločevinko, brca jo po cesti. In potem sem šel čez cesto, ujel nedeljski vonj, nekdo cvre piščanca. O Bog, spomnil me je na nekaj, kar sem izgubil, nekako in nekje na svoji poti. Na pločniku v nedeljo zjutraj sem res želel si bit zadet. Ker je nekaj na nedelji, kar sili to telo osamljeno trpet. Nič, kar ne umira, pol tako osamljeno ne zveni kot speči mestni pločnik, ko nedeljsko jutro se budi. V parku videl sem očeta z veselo hčerkico, ki jo je gugal. In ob nedeljski šoli postal, pesmi so peli in sem poslušal. Ko sem šel dol po ulici je klical osamljeni zvon nekje daleč proč in odmeval po soteski, kot tiste moje izginjajoče sanje od nekoč. |