Waters of March / Águas de Março

Nizhnee Otradnoe, Odintsovo, Moscow region, Russia, March 2008.

 

И тут меня, что называется, прорвало:

 

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.

 

***

 

И только придя домой, я вспомнил, что это уже было написано

 

Antonio Carlos Jobim, Waters of March / Águas de Março.

Done