The Mines of Mozambique - Bruce Cockburn

    There's a broad river winding
    through this African lowland
    The moon is held up orange and big
    See it raise its hand
    And the last ferry's pulling out
    with no place left to stand
    for the mines of Mozambique

    There's a wealth of amputation
    waiting in the ground
    But no one can remember
    where they put it down
    If you're the child that finds it there
    You will rise upon the sound
    of the mines of Mozambique

    Some men rob the passersby
    for a bit of cash to spend
    Some men rob whole countries dry
    and still get called their friend
    And under the feeding frenzy
    There's a wound that will not mend
    in the mines of Mozambique

    Night, like peace, is a state of suspension. Tomorrow the heat will
    rise and mist will hide the marshy fields, the mango and the cashew
    trees, which only now they're clearing brush from under. Rusted husks
    of blown up trucks line the roadway north of town, like passing
    through a sculpture gallery. War is the artist, but he's sleeping now.
    And somebody will be peddling vials of penicillin stolen out of all
    the medical kits sent to the countryside. And in the bare workshop
    they'll be molding plastic into little prosthetic legs for the
    children of this artist and for those who farm the soil that received
    his bitter seed.

    The all night stragglers stagger home
    Cocks begin to crow
    And singing birds are starting up
    telling what they know
    And after awhile the sun will come
    and we'll see what it will show
    of the mines of Mozambique


    Marco Giunco
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