Tom Jobim "Águas Março" (The Waters of March)

The epitome and genius of cool, in my book, is António Carlos Jobim (aka Tom Jobim). He is cool, in the superficial sense, because of his personal affect: well-educated, urbanity, humor, nonchalance, understated, Brazilian in the 60s. He invented cool in the 60s. Watch this video of him and Sinatra -- who is cool and who wants to be cool?
More interesting to me, is his more substantial and lasting cool. He melds together a sophisticated harmonic language with simple (sometimes monotonous) melodies; pessimism (no other word will do) and frustrated desires is his tone; love, life, society, and humanity is his poetic inspiration.
This particular song (The Waters of March) captures his essence more than any of dozens of remarkable songs. Pessimism and hope woven together in lyric and harmony. Ah. Jobim.

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