There's a broad river winding

Through this African lowland

The moon is held up orange and big

See it raise its hands

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 limbs

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