I weep in the quiet hours,
For crimson is my dressing gown.
I weep in the quiet hours.

This place is a heart's ghost town.
Footsteps echo as I run,
For crimson is my dressing gown.

My darling holds the handgun;
His breaths are knives in the night.
Footsteps echo as I run.

I can't see for blinding fright!
Black and shadow fast close in.
His breaths are knives in the night.

'Twas my love for him a sin?
No more is his devotion.
Black and shadow fast close in.

This is death in slow motion.
I scream in the quiet hours!
No more is his devotion.
We weep in the quiet hours . . .