Bruce Cockburn - Postcards From Cambodia lyrics

Abe Lincoln once turned to somebody and said, "Do you ever find yourself talking with the dead?" There are three tiny d**hs 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, gla** paneled, maybe ten meters high filled with skulls from the k**ing 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-colored Brahma bull grazes wet-eyed, hobbled in hollow of ma** grave In the neighboring 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 The sun will soon slide down into the far end of the ancient reservoir. Orange ball merging with its water-borne twin below air-brushed edges of cloud. But first, it spreads itself, a golden scrim behind fractal sweep of swooping fly catchers. 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, sun streaked gleam stitched in strings across patchwork land and march west toward the far hills of Thailand. Macro an*log of Ankor 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 gra**, 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. And 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.