Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Nele Sillaot (X) (#14801) |
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. | Siis kui pühapäev on käes Tõusin pühapäeval üles ja ei olnud poosi, kus ei lõhuks pea. Linnupetteks joodud õlu polnud paha, nii jõin magustoiduks ka. Riidekapis tuuseldasin ja sealt leidsin kõige vähem musta särgi. Ja siis pesin näo ja koperdasin trepist alla vastu päevale. Suitsutasin oma mõistust öösel sigarettide ja kidraga. Andsin esimesel suitsul tuld ja nägin - poiss lõi purki jalaga. Läksin üle tänava ja tundsin pühapäevast ahjukana lõhna. Taevas, meenutas see miskit, mis läks kaotsi kuskil millalgi mu teel. Kõnniteel vast pühapäeva ma soovin, et ma oleks täis. Sest on miskit pühapäevas, mis sust üksiklase teeb. Pooltki puudu pole surmas üksindusest, mis on hääl sellel uinund linna pervel, siis kui pühapäev on käes. Pargis nägin ühte isa kiigutamas väikest naervat tüdrukut. Pühapäevakooli kõrval seisma jäin ja kuulasin sealt kostvat muusikat. Mööda tänavat ma läksin, kaugelt kostis ainsa kella helinat ja see kajas läbi oru, nagu eilse päeva hääbuv unistus. |