Creeping vines reached downward
from treetop to dank soil.
Struggling for existence
they wind and bend and coil.

The grass is slowly parted
hesitation, caution, doubt.
A young lad peers between the blades
a cracking shot rings out.

He falls, his life has ended
the jungle, still once more.
In a far off corner of the world
away from homeland shore.

The scene was oft repeated
in a jungle, cruel and vast.
A strange land in the far east
many lads would breathe their last.

Back home the riots started
to the north the cowards fled.
Students marched in protest
while in Asia heroes bled.

In later years, the brave would rest
in a graveyard side by side.
With a cold black wall to honor them
a shrine for those who died.