Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Anita du Plessis (#14846) |
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. | Sondagmôre breek aan Ontwakend Sondagoggend Met g'n manier om my kop te hou dat dit nie ontplof. En die bier vir ontbyt was nie sleg, So ek stamp hom vas vir nagereg. Toe krap ek deur my klere Vir my skoonste geswete hemp. Ek was my bakkies en kam my hare En strompel teen die trappe af om die dag te groet. Ek't my kop gisteraand uitgebrand Met stompies rook en na liedjies soek. Met my eerste trek kyk ek na 'n seuntjie Wat 'n blik rondskop. Toe strompel ek oor die leë straat En kry die Sondaggeur van iemand wat hoender braai. En o Heer, dit vat my ver terug na iets wat ek Iewers, êrens lank terug oppad verloor het. Op 'n Sondagmôre langs 'n straat, Wens ek Heer, ek was liewer dronk. Want daar's iets in 'n Sondag Wat 'n mens alleen laat voel. En daar's niks behalwe die dood Wat halfpad so alleen is as die klank Van die slapende sypad En Sondagmôre wat aanbreek. In die park sien ek 'n Pappa Met 'n laggende dogtertjie wat hy swaai En ek stop langs die Sondagskool En luister na die liedjies wat hul sing. Toe gaan ek straataf, En iewers verder af lui 'n eensame klok, Dit eggo deur die canyon Soos die wegraakdrome van gister. |