On the banks of the Murray, or some other stream, old veterans come home to ponder and dream, to shout at their demons and pray to the Lord. that in dark and in light, their heart's in accord with the fact that they are who their pasts have prepared. They can grow in that fact or forever run scared.
They let off steam, rant and rave; shout aloud, "Where am I?" Where's that callow young youth who once reached for the sky? Is he lost? Is he dead? Does his fear and his dread mean he's missing, he's mad, or that he's been fed to the demons of war and the mares of the night who wander around hiding from light?
And it's the light not the darkness that is seen from the shore because darkness is nothing except time wanting more from the day, from the life, from the warmth of the love of those who DO know and who offer the dove
And write, my old friends write from your hearts the lessons of youth that war tore apart. Be it rhyme Be it prose be it neither of those, write it down dear old friends in a hand that is bold; write it down for yourselves and let ev'ry one know.