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