Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation #14777 |
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. | Na nedeljsko jutro se spušča V nedeljo zjutraj sem odprl oči, nisem znal zasukati glave, da bi me nehala bolet. Pivo, ki sem ga spil za zajtr, je bilo fajn, zato sem spil še enega za posladek. Potem sem prebrskal celo omaro in našel najbolj čisto umazano majico. Umil sem si obraz, počesal lase in se skotalil po stopnicah novega dne. Prejšnjo noč sem si zameglil um, s cigareti in komadi, ki sem jih izbiral. Vseeno sem prižgal prvo in gledal otroka, ki se je igral s konzervo in jo brcal. Potem sem šel čez cesto in zavohal nedeljski vonj ocvrtega piščanca. In, o, Gospod, poneslo me je nazaj k nečemu, kar sem izgubil. Nekje, nekako je izginilo med potjo. Na nedeljsko jutro si na pločniku zaželim, Gospod, da bi bilo zadeto. V nedelji je namreč nekaj takega, da telo občuti močno samoto. Niti smrt se ne more kosati s tem, samota smrti je pol manj huda, kot zvok zaspanega mestnega pločnika, ki se spušča na nedeljsko jutro. V parku sem videl očka s smejočo deklico, ki jo je gugal na gugalnici. Ustavil sem se pri verouku in prisluhnil pesmim, ki so jih peli. Zatem sem šel po ulici, nekje daleč stran je odbil samotni zvon, zdelo se je, da po kanjonu slišijo odmevi izginjajočih včerajšnjih sanj. |