Missing Saints

I dreamt of clouds and rainy days.
Of fogs and bogs and and misty haze.
The piercing rays of glory fades.
As people die and wash away.

The river flows, it never slows.
All you hear is squawking crows.
In his memory the key is stowed.
He will never let us know.

Hes seen the dead wash away.
The pain is gone it could not stay.
But beneath the ground the warriors still lay.
Never heard but still they pray.

Greatness has since come and gone.
Their armies forever marching on.
Holding flags and singing songs.
For rememberance they solely long.