Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation #14879 |
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. | Nedeljno jutro koje pada Probudio sam se u nedeljno jutro, Nema pokreta glavom koji nije zaboleo. A pivo za doručak nije bilo loše, pa sam za desert još jedno uzeo. Onda sam preturao po ormaru sa odećom I najčistiju prljavu košulju našao. Umio sam lice i očešljao kosu I posrćući sišao dole u novi dan. Prošlu noć sam spalio mozak cigaretama i pesmama koje sam puštao. Ali sam zapalio prvu i gledao nekog klinca Kako se igra konzervom koju je šutirao. Onda sam prešao ulicu A nedeljni miris nečjeg pečenog pileta me zapahnuo. Bože, to me je vratilo nečemu što izgubih Negde i nekako tamo usput. Na trotoaru nedeljnog jutra Poželim tako, Bože, da sam pijan. Jer ima nečeg‘ u toj nedelji Zbog čega se čovek oseća sam. A nema ničeg‘ osim smrti Što je upola tako samotno kao zvuk Trotoara usnulog grada I nedeljnog jutra koje pada. U parku sam video taticu Sa nasmejanom maleckom koju je ljuljao. I zastao sam kraj nedeljne škole I pesme koje su pevali slušao. Onda sam krenuo dalje ulicom, A negde daleko usamljeno zvono je zvonilo, Odjekivalo je kroz taj kanjon Kao jučerašnji snovi koji nestaju. |