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 The knot of 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 a slope It’s a beam, it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March It’s the end of the strain, it’s the joy in your heart
The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone The beat of the road, a sling-shot stone 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 cock, 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 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 snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe A fish, a flash, a silvery glow 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 load The rest of a stump, a lonesome road A sliver of glass, a life, the sun A night, 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
Songwriter: Antonio Carlos Jobim
“A lecherous sunrise flaunted itself over a flatulent sea, ripping the obsidian bodice of night asunder with its rapacious fingers of gold, thus exposing her dusky bosom to the dawn’s ogling stare.“ – Stu Duval, Auckland, New Zealand
