A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road;
It's feeling alone, it's the weight of your load;
It's a sliver of glass, it's life, it's the sun;
It's night, it's death, it's a knife, it's a gun;
A flower that blooms, a fox in the brush;
A knot in the wood, the song of a thrush;
A myst'ry of life, the steps in the hall;
The sound of the wind, and the waterfall.
It's the moon floating free, it's the curve of the slope;
It's an end, it's a bee, it's a reason for hope;
And the river bank sings of the waters of March;
It's the promise of spring, the joy in your heart.
A spear, a spike, a stake, a nail;
It's a drip, it's a drop, it's the end of the tale;
The dew on the leaf in the morning light,
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night;
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump,
It's the will to survive, it's a jolt, it's a jump;
Blue print of a house, a body in bed;
Car stuck in the mud, it's the mud, it's the mud;
A fish, a flash, a wish, a wing;
It's a hawk, it's a dove, it's the promise of spring;
And the river bank sings of the waters of March;
It's the end of dispair, the joy in your heart.
A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road;
The stump of a tree, it's a frog, it's a toad;
A sigh, a breath, a walk, a run;
A life, a death, a rain, a sun;
And the river bank sings of the waters of March;
It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart.
Music by Antonio Carlos Jobim