
The Witching Hour's Lament
[Verse 1] The veil is thin, the moon is bled, the ancient pact is sealed, From crumbling stones where the restless dead will have their truth revealed. Tonight the shadows leave the trees and the black hound runs the lane, Hear the coven's call upon the breeze, a whisper born of pain. [Pre-Chorus] They light the pyre on Samhain's night, for the crop that failed to yield, The missing child, the fading light, the wound that will not be healed. She dances now in smoke and fire, with eyes that burn like coal, Fulfilment of a dark desire, to claim the errant soul! [Chorus] WHEN THE BELL TOLLS THIRTEEN! The midnight's curse is cast! The phantom legions rise unseen, from the hollows of the past! A LAMENT FOR THE LOST ONES! A scream in the cold October air! The price of magic, once begun, is more than you can bear! Verse 2 (Female Vocals - darker, lower register, the heavy guitar riff becomes slower and more crushing/doom-metal style) The scarecrow hung upon the post, its straw face now turned real, A vacant smile to greet the ghost, the agony you feel. He follows you through garden gates, down paths of crumbling slate, The harvester of twisted fates, arrives before it's too late. (Guitar Bridge/Solo [A dramatic instrumental section: the main guitar riff drops out for a moment, leaving only the pumping double bass drums and a haunting, melancholic Violin melody. Then, the heavy guitars re-enter with a fierce, harmonized lead melody that builds into a lightning-fast, shredding solo, incorporating a wild, frantic Celtic flute break before the final, dramatic guitar bends.]) Chorus (Grand Chorus - maximum intensity, the ultimate power metal climax) WHEN THE BELL TOLLS THIRTEEN! The midnight's curse is cast! The phantom legions rise unseen, from the hollows of the past! A LAMENT FOR THE LOST ONES! A scream in the cold October air! The price of magic, once begun, is more than you can bear! Bridge (Female Vocals - slowing down, dramatic crescendo, all instruments hit a very slow, cinematic rhythm) Don't look back into the mirror, or whisper of their names, The breath upon your neck grows nearer, fanned by spectral flames. This night belongs to what is old, to the soil and the moss, A chilling story to be told, of ultimate dark loss... (Outro [The instruments crash together one final time on a dissonant chord. The sound quickly fades, leaving a slow, echoing rhythm on the double bass drums, followed by the chilling, receding sound of the Celtic flute mimicking a howling wind. A final, sharp, distorted guitar feedback rings out and is cut off abruptly.] [End])

