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 callTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.