(A. C. Jobin)
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A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road,
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It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone,
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It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun,
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It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun.
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The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush,
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The nod of the wood, the song of a thrush,
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The wood of the wing, a cliff, a fall,
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A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all.
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It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope,
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It's a bean, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope.
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And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
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It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart.
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The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone,
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The beat of the road, a sling-shot stone,
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A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light,
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The shot of a gun in the dead of the night.
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A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump,
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It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps.
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The plan of the house, the body in bed,
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And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud.
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Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing,
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A cock, a quail, the promise of spring.
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And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
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It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart.
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A point, a grain, a bee, a bite,
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A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night,
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A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain,
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A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain.
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A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe,
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A fish, a flash, a silvery glow.
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And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
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It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart.
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A stick, a stone, the end of the load,
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The rest of a stump, a lonesome road.
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A sliver of glass, a life, the sun,
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A night, a death, the end of the run.
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And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
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It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart.
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Waters Of March
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| Art Garfunkel |
