Postcards from cambodia - versuri Bruce Cockburn |
Postcards from cambodia - versuri Bruce Cockburn |

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Versuri Bruce Cockburn - Postcards from cambodia

trimise de FatimaFatima.

Abe Lincoln once turned to somebody and said:
"Do you ever find yourself talking with the dead? "

There are three tiny death's heads carved out of mammoth tusk
on the ledge in my bathroom.
They grin at me in the morning when I'm taking a leak,
but they say very little.

Outside Phnom Penh there's a tower, glass-pannelled,
maybe ten meters high,
filled with skulls from the killing fields.
Most of them lack the lower jaw
so they don't exactly grin,
but they whisper, as if from a great distance,
of pain, and of pain left far behind...

Eighteen thousand empty eyeholes peering out at the four directions...

Electric fly buzz – green moist breeze –
Bone–coloured Brahma bull grazes wet eyed, (gazes??)
hobbled in hollow of mass grave...
In the neighbouring field a small herd
of young boys plays soccer,
their laughter swallowed in expanding silence.

This is too big for anger,
it's too big for blame.
We stumble through history so
humanly lame –
So I bow down my head –
Say a prayer for us all
That we don't fear the spirit
when it comes to call

Sun will soon slide down into the far end of the ancient reservoir.
Orange ball merging with its water-borne twin
below airbrushed edges of cloud.
But first it spreads itself,
a golden scrim behind fractal sweep of swooping flycatchers.
Silhouetted dark green trees,
Blue horizon.

The rains are late this year.
The sky has no more tears to shed.
But from the air Cambodia remains
a disc of wet green, bordered by bright haze.
Water-filled bomb craters – sunstreak gleam –
stitched in strings across patchwork land
march west toward the far hills of Thailand.
Macro analog of Angkor Wat's temple walls –
intricate bas-relief of thousand-year-old battles
pitted with AK rounds.

And under the sign of the seven-headed cobra
the naga who sees in all directions
seven million landmines lie in terraced grass, in paddy, in bush
(call it a minescape now)

Sally holds the beggar's hand and cries
at his scarred-up face and absent eyes
and right leg gone from above the knee

Tears spot the dust on the worn stone causeway
whose sculpted guardians row on row
half frown, half smile, mysterious, mute.

This is too big for anger.
It's too big for blame
We stumble through history so
humanly lame.
So I bow down my head,
say a prayer for us all.
That we don't fear the spirit
when it comes to call.

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