A stranger to the crossroads went,
his cloak heavy with the rain.
His face was full of discontent,
he walked as if in pain.

His boots were caked with thick, black mud,
for it seemed, he'd traveled long.
He had a wolf with eyes red as blood,
that followed him as he went along.

The stranger's eyes seemed ablaze,
with a fanatical light.
There in the crossroads did he raise,
the sword of the Forgotten Knight.

He raised the sword to the north,
and there came a terrible sound.
On the wind came a jet black horse
followed by baying of the hounds.

He raised the sword to the south,
to where the lost heros lay.
A haunting howl is torn from the wolf's great mouth,
as the hounds still bay.

He raised the sword to the east,
toward the distant dawn,
A flock of ravens come from their feast,
to join that unnatural song.

He raises the sword to the west,
to the darkness and the night.
From the shadows that never rest,
comes forth the skeletal knight.

The sword is plunged in the ground,
and silence seems to reign.
The crossroads is deviod of sound,
as the stranger speaks the names.

He speaks the names of those who fell,
upon countless battlefields.
Those now in Heaven or Hell,
who were bourne upon their shields.

He names the names of those who died
whos names time has washed away,
The names of those who laughed and cried,
who never again seen the day.

The name of each was spoken,
with proper respect and reverence.
Each was a life that was broken,
too soon was each life spent.

As the names were all spoken,
whispered to the shadows of the night.
Like a spell that was broken,
came the dawn's first ray of light.

The stranger then sheathed the sword,
of the Forgotten Knight.
The gathering at the crossroads,
slowly faded in the morning light.

The ravens still remember names,
as does the wildest storm,
That is what, in a wolfs refrain,
you hear as it mourns.

The stranger to a crossroad goes,
slowly walking once again.
In his mind the names he knows,
were all heros to the end.