Bruce *****burn - 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 deaths heads carved out of mammoth tuskon the ledge in my bathroom.They grin at me in the morning when Im taking a leak,but they say very little.Outside Phnom Penh theres a tower, glass-pannelled,maybe ten meters high,filled with skulls from the killing fields.Most of them lack the lower jawso they dont exactly grin,but they whisper, as if from a great distance,of pain, and of pain left far behindEighteen thousand empty eyeholes peering out at the four directionsElectric fly buzz green moist breezeBonecoloured Brahma bull grazes wet eyed, (gazes??)hobbled in hollow of mass graveIn the neighbouring field a small herdof young boys plays soccer,their laughter swallowed in expanding silence.This is too big for anger,its too big for blame.We stumble through history sohumanly lameSo I bow down my headSay a prayer for us allThat we dont fear the spiritwhen it comes to callSun will soon slide down into the far end of the ancient reservoir.Orange ball merging with its water-borne twinbelow 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 remainsa disc of wet green, bordered by bright haze.Water-filled bomb craters sunstreak gleamstitched in strings across patchwork landmarch west toward the far hills of Thailand.Macro analog of Angkor Wats temple walls
