Source text in English — View comments about this source text » | Translation by Alta R (#14966) |
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. | Stoksielalleen op ‘n Sondagoggend So word ek wakker Sondagoggend Met ‘n kopseer wat skrik vir niks En 'n eerste bier vir brekfis smaak goed So n tweede een doen geen skade. Dan grou ek deur die vuil wasgoed in my kas En kry my skoonste vuil hemp. Ek was my gesig en kam my hare En strompel trap af die dag tegemoet. Gis’traand is my verstand benewel Met sigarette en tokkel op my ghitaar. Maar ek steek maar weer een aan En staar na n kind wat ‘n blik rondskop. Dan stap ek oor die straat En kry die reuk van Sondagbraaihoender. En Here, dit neem my terug op die pad na iets, iewers lank verlore. Sondagoggend op ‘n sypaadjie, Wens ek, Here, dat ek niks kon voel nie. Want daar is iets in ‘n Sondag Wat jou stoksielalleen laat voel. En daar is niks anders as die dood Wat amper so verlate is as die klank Van 'n slapende stad se sypaadjie En Sondagoggend strompel ek die dag tegemoet. In die park sien ek ‘n pappa Sy laggende klein dogtertjie rondswaai. En ek stop langs die Sondagskool en luister na die klank van hulle sang. Dan gaan ek straat af, En iewers in die verte lui ‘n enkele kerkklok, En dit weergalm deur die kranse Soos die uitgestorwe drome van gister. |