Antonio Carlos Jobim (Waters of March in English)

’A stick, a stone, It’s the end of the road, It’s the rest of a stump, It’s a little alone It’s a sliver of glass, It is life, it’s the sun, It is night, it is death, It’s a trap, it’s a gun The oak when it blooms, A fox in the brush, A knot in the wood, The song of a thrush The wood of the wind, A cliff, a fall, A scratch, a lump, It is nothing at all It’s the wind blowing free, It’s the end of the slope, It’s a beam, it’s a void, It’s a hunch, it’s a hope And the river bank talks of the waters of March, It’s the end of the strain, The joy in your heart The foot, the ground, The flesh and the bone, The beat of the road, A slingshot’s stone A fish, a flash, A silvery glow, A fight, a bet, The range of a bow The bed of the well, The end of the line, The dismay in the face, It’s a loss, it’s a find A spear, a spike, A point, a nail, A drip, a drop, The end of the tale A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light, The shot of a gun in the dead of the night A mile, a must, A thrust, a bump, It’s a girl, it’s a rhyme, It’s a cold, it’s the mumps The plan of the house, The body in bed, And the car that got stuck, It’s the mud, it’s the mud Afloat, adrift, A flight, a wing, A hawk, a quail, The promise of spring And the riverbank talks of the waters of March, It’s the promise of life It’s the joy in your heart A stick, a stone, It’s the end of the road It’s the rest of a stump, It’s a little alone A snake, a stick, It is John, it is Joe, It’s a thorn in your hand and a cut in your toe A point, a grain, A bee, a bite, A blink, a buzzard, A sudden stroke of night A pin, a needle, A sting, a pain, A snail, a riddle, A wasp, a stain A pass in the mountains, A horse and a mule, In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue And the riverbank talks of the waters of March, It’s the promise of life in your heart, in your heart A stick, a stone, The end of the road, The rest of a stump, A lonesome road A sliver of glass, A life, the sun, A knife, a death, The end of the run And the riverbank talks of the waters of March, It’s the end of all strain, It’s the joy in your heart.’