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Perhaps the definitive song in the Brazilian “Bossa Nova” canon is “Águas de Março,” “The Waters of March” by Antonio Carlos Jobim. This song repeats two short melodic themes, with slight variations in tempo, over a deceivingly simple sounding set of chord changes. The lyrics are a list of impressions as if the singer is describing an album of photographs.

Tom Jobim wrote words in Portuguese and in English for the song, however I prefer the English translation made by Susanah McCorkle. I was searching for McCorkle on YouTube when I found this beautiful video of Brazilian singer Elis Regina singing the song in the original Portuguese. I did find evidence that footage of McCorkle singing this song exists but apparently has been removed from YouTube. This would have been at the request of the copyright holder, what a shame.

Elis Regina Carvalho Costa was one of Brazil’s most popular singers. She started performing on a children’s radio program at the age of eleven. Her 1974 collaboration with Jobim, “Elis & Tom,” on which this song appears, has been called one of the greatest bossa nova albums of all time. In 1982 Elis Regina died of an accidental overdose, caused by a combination of prescription tranquilizers and alcohol. She was 36.

The close-up camera work, on Regina’s expressive face, as she sings Águas de Março is marvelous, the music is hypnotic and her voice is thrilling.

Here is the English translation by Susanah McCorkle.

A stick a stone
it’s the end of the road,

it’s the rest of the 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 in the wood,
the song of the 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 water of march

it’s the end of the strain,
it’s the joy in your heart.

the foot, the ground,
the flesh, the bone,

the beat of the road,
a slingshot stone.

a fish, a flash,
a silvery glow,

a fight, a bet,
the range of the 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 the cold, it’s the mumps.

the plan of the house,
the body in bed,

the car that got stuck,
it’s the mud, it’s the mud.

a float, a drift,
a flight, a wing,

a hawk, a quail,
the promise of spring.

and the riverbanks talks.
of the waters of march.

it’s the promise of life,
it’s the joy in your heart,

a snake, a stick,
it is john, it is joe,

it’s a thorn in your hand,
and a cut on your toe.

a point, a grain,
a bee, a bite,

a blink, a buzzard,
the sudden stroke of night.

a pin, a needle,
a sting, a pain,

a snail, a riddle,
a weep, a stain.

a pass in the mountains.
a horse, a mule,

in the distance the shelves.
rode three shadows of blue.

and the riverbank talks
of the promise of life
in your heart, in your heart

a stick, a stone,
the end of the load,

the rest of the 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

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