The Witching Hour
In my absence, I walked along the cliff-tops of the Seven Sisters in the Southeast of England. Though the day was beautiful and the wind warm, I was invited to dwell upon events, people and places that I have known and will perhaps never see again. It was as if the Seven Sisters, like witches conjuring their mayhem, had planted such thoughts.
The Witching Hour
or in French, as I now spend more time learning this language than I devote to writing music. L'heure Des Sorciéres. @Kafla, thank you for singing the beautiful backing vocals. Your friend Paul.
https://soundcloud.com/wicked-deeds/lheure-des-sorcieresThe Witching Hour
12 years counting, it could be 5 or 4.
I doubt that I will never be at home behind the door.
Unimportant words.
To think that you would listen is clearly, quite absurd.
So I stand upon these rocky shores, firing signals into space;
A musical lament called SOS.
I do confess, there is a loneliness within.
Let the witching hour begin.
12 years counting, the numbers are quite blurred.
The screams that break the silence of the night time can be heard.
Unimportant words.
To think that you would listen is clearly, quite absurd.
So I stand upon these rocky shores, firing signals into space;
A musical lament called SOS.
I do confess, there is a loneliness within.
Let the witching hour begin.
Let the witching hour begin
I walked along the cliff-tops,
the wind around me whispering your names.
The mischief of The Seven Sisters,
beautiful, yet hell-bent on their games.
Let the witching hour begin.
Let the witching hour begin.
Written by Paul Vasey
https://soundcloud.com/wicked-deeds/lheure-des-sorcieres