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Poetry with a tune: "Translation of Lyrics" » English to Slovenian » Entry #14663


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Translation #14663

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.
Nedeljsko jutro prebuja se

No, v nedeljo zjutraj sem se zbudil,
glava je bolela, kakorkoli sem jo obrnil.
In pivo za zajtrk slabo ni bilo,
in tako je še eno za posladek mu sledilo.

Nato prebrskal sem omaro z oblačili
in le našel eno najbolj čisto od umazanih srajc.
Nato umil sem si obraz, počesal še lase,
se opotekel po stopnicah dol, da videl bi, kam dan gre.

Prejšnjo noč opil sem svoje misli
krive bile so cigarete in izbrane pesmi.
Vseeno prižgal sem svojo prvo
in gledal otroka, kako v igri brca konzervo.

Nato prečkal sem cesto
in ujel nedeljski vonj tujega ocvrtega piščanca.
In Gospod, to poneslo me je nazaj k nečemu, kar izgubil sem,
nekje, nekako na svoji poti.

Na pločniku nedeljskega jutra,
želim si Gospod, da zadet bi bil.
Ker v nedelji nekaj je,
kar osamljenega dela te.

In nič drugega smrti ni podobno,
nič pol tako samotno,
kot zven pločnika v spečem mestu.
In nedeljsko jutro prebuja se.

V parku videl sem očeta,
zibal je smehljajočo se deklico.
In postal sem ob nedeljski šoli,
prisluhnil pesmim, ki so jih peli.

Nato po ulici sem se namenil
in osamljen zvonec je zazvonil daleč stran nekje,
odmeval je po vsem kanjonu,
kot zbledele sanje včerajšnjega dne.


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