Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Kate Perak (#14924) |
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. | Nedjeljno jutro mamurno Pa ustao sam, nedjelja je, od boli baš sam se osjeć'o bijedno. A i pivo od doručka loše nije pa sam za desert uzeo još jedno. Po ormaru sam pretur'o, i naš'o najčišću majicu, a prljavu. Umio se i češljao kosu pa sjurio dolje u novi dan. Pušio sam puno prošlu noć i pjesme sam često birao. Zapalio sam jednu i promatr'o klinca što je limenku šutirao. Tad sam se prošetao i uhvatio onaj miris nečijeg pečenja. I Bože, sjeti me na nešto, što sam negdje, nekako izgubio usput. Na pločniku sam toga jutra, moj Bože, poželio drogu jer u nedjelji nečeg ima pa osjetit samoću mogu. I nema ničeg, osim umiranja, što je imalo samotnije od smoga uspavanog gradskog pločnika i nedjeljnog jutra mamurnoga. U parku sam sreo taticu koji njihao je kćer visoko u zrak. Zastao sam pored škole i slušao pjesme što pjevali su čak. Ulicom sam krenuo dalje, a negdje se daleko osamljeno zvono čulo, i odjekivalo je kanjonom poput jučerašnjih snova kojih više nema. |