Is the full moon that’s forming shadows on the killing fields of war
The same one that shone so brightly when undying love he swore?
Are the fireflies that flicker like torches in the humid jungle night
The same ones that he saw back home and that engendered such delight?

When he hears the chirping of cicadas and the croaking of the frogs
Does he associate them with the rice paddies and fetid jungle bogs
Or do they return him for a moment to the bubbling brook back home?
What is that young bloke thinking, sitting there and all alone?