Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Perugina (#14986) |
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. | Prihajajoče nedeljsko jutro Zbudil sem se na nedeljsko jutro Nezmožen obrniti glavo brez bolečine. Pivo za zajtrk ni bila slaba ideja Zato sem si privoščil še enega za posladek. Nato sem prebrskal obleke po omari In našel najčistejšo umazano srajco. Si umil obraz in se počesal ter se spustil po stopnicah, da srečam dan. Prejšnjo noč sem se zadel S cigaretami in pesmimi, ki sem jih izbiral. Prižgal sem prvo in opazoval malega otroka Kako se igra z brcanjem pločevinke. Nato sem se sprehodil po ulici In ujel nedeljski vonj po ocvrtemu piščancu. Oh Bog, to mi je obudilo spomin na nekaj kar sem na poti nekoč, nekje izgubil. Na pločniku nedeljskega jutra, si želim da bi bil zadet. Saj nekaj je na tej nedelji da se telo počuti osamljeno. To je hujše kot smrt To je pol toliko osamljeno kot zaspan mestni pločnik In prihajanje nedeljskega jutra. V parku sem zagledal očka, ki potiska majhno smejočo deklico na gugalnici. Ustavil sem se pri nedeljski šoli In poslušal pesmi ki so jih peli. Potem sem odšel po cesti In nekje daleč proč zvonil je osamljen zvonec, In odmeval po kanjonu Kot izginjajoče včerajšnje sanje. |