In a week from now, you will have been gone for seven daysI wish I could cry, sometimesI'll think back to fuller timesAnd if we're strangled now as its victimsI can't decideThe photographs we took together sit inside the framesIn dusty photo books, pressed flowersWe rarely wrote our namesOn picnic tables, in history, silently the sameI wish I could cry, sometimesI'll think back to fuller timesAnd if we're strangled now as its victimsI won't decideIn a week from now, you will have been gone for sеven daysThere is no impеtus for sadness, it has to be this wayProgress eventually creates some casualties
