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Cockburn Bruce The Charity Of Night The Mines Of Mozambique 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 (Bridge) 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 |
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