Postcards From Cambodia Bruce Cockburn

[Verse 1]
Abe Lincoln once turned to somebody and said
"Do you ever find yourself talking with the dead?"

[Verse 2]
There are three tiny death's 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

[Verse 3]
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

[Verse 4]
Electric fly buzz—green moist breeze—
Bone-coloured Brahma bull grazes wet-eyed
Hobbled in hollow of mass grave
In the neighbouring field
A small herd of young boys plays soccer
Their laughter swallowed in expanding silence