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 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