Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Ana Maretic (#14872) — Winner |
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 sad je tu Probudih se tako u nedjeljno jutro Kako god bih glavu držao jednako je boljelo I jutarnje pivo leglo mi je dobro Pa sam još jedno kao desert strusio. Tad prekopah po svom ormaru Nađoh košulju od prljavih najčistiju Umih svoje lice i počešljah si kosu I sjurih se niz stube danu ususret. Noć prije izgorio mi je um Uz cigarete i pjesme koje sam birao Ali zapalih opet i ugledah dječaka U igi šutirajući limenku. Onda pređoh preko puta I uhvatih nedjeljni miris nečije pečene piletine I Gospode, to me vrati nečemu što izgubih Negdje, nekako usput. Na pločniku nedjeljnog jutra Poželjeh, Gospode, da sam pijan Jer ima nešto nedjeljom Radi čega duša umire. I ničeg nema osim umiranja I ništa tako usamljeno nije kao zvuk Uspavanog gradskog pločnika A nedjeljno jutro sad je tu. U parku vidjeh taticu S nasmijanom djevojčicom koju ljuljaše Pa stadoh pored crkve I slušah pjesme koje pjevahu. Onda nastavih niz ulicu A negdje daleko usamljeno zvono zvonjaše Odjekujuć' dolinom Poput nestalih jučerašnjih snova. |