They talked of times gone past
And of their sweetest dreams
They buried the past as well as themselves
As they forged the jungle streams

They fought fatigue and desolation
Thirst and sleepless nights
Their home a hole, their meal from a box
Lived in hell for others rights

A letter written and tucked away
In a pocket near their heart
They hoped it would never be sent
Upon their death the two would part

They deemed each day to be their last
Death present where ever they roamed
While deep inside they understood
They were just Dying to go home