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Poetry with a tune: "Translation of Lyrics" » English to Slovenian » Entry by Ana Malovrh


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Translation by Ana Malovrh (#14954)

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 gre naokrog

Zazeval sem v nedeljo zjutraj,
z glavo težko kot en cent, a bolela ni.
In ko pir sem spil za zajtrk, ni bilo slabo,
pa sem še en'ga za slovo.

Potem sem šel v omaro po svoj gvant,
po najčistejšo svinjsko majo.
Potem umil sem se in počesal,
pa se po stopnicah odkotrljal v beli dan.

Nakadil sem se večer poprej
s cigaretami in songi, ki sem jih izbral.
Pa pricinil sem si prvo in gledal mulca,
ki piksno sem in tja je igrivo brcal.

Potem sem šel čez cesto
in vame buhnil vonj piščanca je ocvrtega.
In vrnilo me je tja, v spomin, ki sem ga izgubil
nekje nazaj.

Na pločniku v nedeljskem jutru,
želim si, Bog, da bi bil zadet,
saj je nekaj v nedelji,
da si sam kot bi bil zaklet.

In nič ni takšno poleg smrti,
tako osamljeno kot zvok
spečih mirnih mestnih ulic,
ko nedeljsko jutro gre naokrog.

V parku sem videl atka,
poleg punčko na gugalnici, ki jo je vihtel.
In ob nedeljski šoli sem postal
poslušal pesem zbora sem, ki jo je pel.

Pa sem šel nazaj po ul'ci,
nekje daleč stran je osamljen zvon donel,
in odmeval je čez kanjon
kot bledeče sanje včerajšnjega dne.


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