Deja Vu

When as a young boy attending grade school and I first learned about Custer's last stand, why did I experience déjà vu and sense so keenly that far away land? When as a young boy attending grade school and I first heard about that manmade hell, why did I experience déjà vu and sense so keenly, where many men fell? When as an adult on that death pocked hill I finally did chance to walk and stand, why did I feel such a strange eerie chill on that bright summer day so warm and bland? When as an adult on that death pocked hill looking out over that parched rolling ground, why did I feel such a strange eerie chill and silent desperation all around? When walking down Cemetery ravine and by a nameless stone I chanced to stop, why did I sense a dark visage unseen and terror felt by that trooper who fought? When walking down Cemetery ravine and upon ascending the low divide, why did I sense a dark visage unseen and feel akin to that trooper who died? The answers to these things I do not know nor to many other veiled things I feel, or how it is I sense just where to go to locals on the field that seem so real. I will not try to speculate or guess by acquired knowledge some might suggest, but a different reason I confess might to some others seem actually best.