In a week from now, you will have been gone for seven days
I wish I could cry, sometimes
I'll think back to fuller times
And if we're strangled now as its victims
I can't decide
The photographs we took together sit inside the frames
In dusty photo books, pressed flowers
We rarely wrote our names
On picnic tables, in history, silently the same
I wish I could cry, sometimes
I'll think back to fuller times
And if we're strangled now as its victims
I won't decide
In a week from now, you will have been gone for sеven days
There is no impеtus for sadness, it has to be this way
Progress eventually creates some casualties
