Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Egill Þórðarson (#14885) |
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. | Einn sunndag í morgunglettum Ég reis upp sunnudag úr draumi með drunga yfir höfði þungu og drakk einn góðan drykk í laumi, með dreitli vætti þurra tungu. Ég fálmaði í fataskápinn og fann þar næstum hreina skyrtu, þvoði hár og harðan skrápinn og hengslaðist í dagsins birtu. Reykjarkófið kvöldið áður kæfði hug og spilagleði, ég kveikti í rettu, horfði hrjáður á heilbrigt barnið ljúfu geði... leika sér við lausar dósir; ég labba gegnum kjúklingsangan og man með trega týndar rósir, týnda gleði og matarlangan. Sumt er það við sunnudaga sem fær einsemd til að dafna, því það er alltaf segin saga: sunnudag ég er að kafna. Dauðans einsemd er þó stærri en það hljóð af borgarstéttum er borgin sefur saklaus nærri einn sunnudag í morgunglettum. Í garði sá ég prúðan pabba passa litla hnátu að róla, og söngur ómar er ég labba út hjá sunnudagaskóla. Síðan gekk ég götu eina og greindi í fjarska bjölluhljóminn sem hringdi eins og ég vil meina áður horfinn draumaljóminn. |