Postcards from Cambodia
Bruce CockburnOriginale | Versione pubblicata nel 2003 nell'album "You've Never Seen Everything" |
POSTCARDS FROM CAMBODIA Abe Lincoln once turned to somebody and said, "Do you ever find yourself talking with the dead?" There are three tiny skulls carved from 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. Near Phnom Penh there's a tower Panelled, thirty feet high 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 18,000 empty eyeholes looking out at the four directions Electric fly buzz, green moist breeze Bone-colored brahma bull grazes Wet eyed, hobbled in the hollow of mass grave In the neighboring field A herd of young boys play soccer Their laughter swallowed in expanding silence Pray for all of us that have ever been As history's phases wax and wane In the long planet seasons' flow Pray for all who come And all who go Set in amber trail dust Big black scorpion squats Poison spike poised Giant snaking roots of gum trees Consumed strones of Angkor Wat Roofless temple corridors clad In bas-relief of battle scenes Carved a millenium ago Stand like rumors, like whispered tales Golden sword of royal power stolen Gone these 700 years Sun will soon slide into the far end of ancient reservoir Orange ball merging with its water-borne twin Billow air-brushed edges of cloud But first, it spreads itself a golden screen Behind fractal sweep of swooping fly catchers Silhouetted dark green trees, blue horizon Fluid curving God-horn buffalo Knee deep in flooded paddy Motionless...outside time Pray for all of us that have ever been As history's phases wax and wane In the long planet seasons' flow Pray for all who come And all who go The rains are late this year The sky has no more tears to shed But Cambodia remains a disc of wet green Bordered by bright haze Water-filled craters Sun streaked gleam laid in strings Across patchwork land 500- and 1000-pound bombs (small and medium you could say) They march west toward the Distant hills of Thailand Macro version of Phnom Bat King's Precipitous stare on ancient library walls Spackled with the rash of AK rounds .762 by 39 pits You can fit a finger in Sacred scrolls long gone And under the sign of the 7-headed cobra The Naga who sees in all directions Seven million landmines lie terraced in grass, In paddy, in bush Best to call it a minescape now Sally held the beggar's hand and cried At his scarred face and absent eyes And right leg gone from above the knee Tears spot worn stone causeway Laterite guardians frown or smile Pray for all of us that have ever been As history's phases wax and wane In the long planet seasons' flow Pray for all who come And all who go | POSTCARDS FROM CAMBODIA Abe Lincoln once turned to somebody and said, "Do you ever find yourself talking with the dead?" There are three tiny deaths 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 paneled, 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-colored Brahma bull grazes wet-eyed, hobbled in hollow of mass 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 analog 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 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. 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. |