Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Jemima E (#14977) — 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. | Sondag môre alleen op straat Sondag môre word ek wakker Met 'n kopseer wat glad nie wil bedaar. Die bier tydens brêkfis was nie sleg nie, Toe drink ek nog een vir die naar. Toe blaai ek deur die klere in my kas En haal my skoonste vuil t-hemp uit. Was my gesig en jel my kuif En strompel trappe af die dag gemoet. Die aand van tevore het ek my brein berook Met sigarette en melodieë wat nog altyd by my spook. Maar ek steek my eerste aan en sien 'n kind Met 'n blik speel waaraan hy skop. Toe stap ek oor die straat En kry die Sondag-reuk van iemand wat hoender braai. En Heer, dit neem my terug na iets wat ek Iewers op 'n manier verloor het. Sondag môre op 'n sypad, Wens ek Heer om hoog te wees. Want daar is iets aan 'n Sondag Wat mens so alleen laat wees. En dis byna net soos doodgaan Só eensaam is die klank Van die slapende stad se sypad En Sondag môre alleen op straat. In die parkie is 'n Pappa Met 'n laggende klein dogtertjie wat swaai. En ek stop langs 'n Sondagskool En luister na die liedjies wat daar draal. Stap verder af in die straat, En iewers veraf klink die beier van 'n klok, En dit eggo deur die kranse Soos drome wat wegraak in die niet. |