Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Nenad Radosavljević (#14509) — 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. | Bedak nedeljom ujutru Probudio sam se u nedeljno jutro, beznadežno mamurne glave. I pivo koje sam doručkovao mi je leglo, pa sam uzeo još jedno da zasladim. Provršljao sam po odeći u ormaru, i pronašao najčistiju od prljavih košulja. Onda se umio i očešljao, i strmoglavio niz stube u susret danu. Udavio sam se prethodne noći, u dimu cigareta i pesama koje sam puštao. Pa opet zapalih prvu jutarnju, gledajući klinca, kako se igra konzervom k’o loptom. Zatim sam prešao ulicu i nanjušio, nedeljni miris nečijeg pilećeg pečenja. On me podseti, o Gospode, na nešto što sam izgubio, neznano gde i kako, putem kojim sam prošao. Gazeći lice nedeljnog pločnika, gorim od želje da se otkinem. Jer ima nešto nedeljom, što prožima telo samoćom. I samo se sa umiranjem poredi, usamljenost koju nosi bat koraka, po pospanom gradskom pločniku, i bedak nedeljom ujutru. U parku sam video kako tata, ljulja svoju nasmejanu devojčicu. I zaustavio se pored nedeljne škole, da slušam pojanje koje je otud dopiralo. Na kraju ipak pođoh niz ulicu, dok se negde, tamo daleko, čuo jek zvona. I odzvanjao ulicom kao kroz klanac, poput bivših snova koji se gase. |