Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Sofija Blagojevic (#14729) |
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. | Долазак недељног јутра Пробудио сам се у недељу ујутро Са главом која боли под свим угловима Пиво за доручак је добро легло Па сам попио још једно за дезерт. Онда сам испретурао свој ормар, Нашао најчистију прљаву кошуљу, Умио се и очешљао Па одтетурао низ степенице у сусрет дану. Претходне ноћи сам спржио мозак Цигаретама и бираним песмама Али сам запалио прву јутарњу и гледао Неког клинца како у игри шутира конзерву. Онда сам прешао улицу и осетио Недељни мирис пржене пилетине. Боже, то ме подсетило на нешто што сам Некако изгубио негде успут. На улици, у недељно јутро, пожелео сам, Боже, да ме каменују, Јер нешто у недељном дану Чини да се осећам самим. Умирање није ни упола тако усамљено Као звук успаване градске улице Недељом ујутру. У парку сам видео оца како љуља Насмејану девојчицу на љуљашци. Стао сам поред недељне школе И слушао њихову песму. Онда сам пошао низ улицу, Негде у даљини се зачуло усамљено звоно, Одјекивало је низ кањон Као јучерашњи снови који бледе. |