Postcards From Cambodia 歌词

歌曲	Postcards From Cambodia
歌手	Bruce Cockburn
专辑	You've Never Seen Everything
下载	Image LRC TXT

	作词 : Cockburn
	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 call.

	zuo ci : Cockburn
	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
	Bonecolored Brahma bull grazes weteyed,
	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 waterborne twin
	below airbrushed 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.
	Waterfilled 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 basrelief of thousandyearold 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 call.

	zuò cí : Cockburn
	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
	Bonecolored Brahma bull grazes weteyed,
	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 waterborne twin
	below airbrushed 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.
	Waterfilled 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 basrelief of thousandyearold 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 call.

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