One year like any old other year in a week like any week
Monday lying down, half asleep
People doing what people do, loving, working and getting through
No portraits on the walls of Seventh Avenue
Then Tuesday came and went like a helicopter overhead
The letter that she left, cold addressed in red
Tuesday came and went one, one September when
Will she come again?
The thing about memories they're sure and bound to fade
Except for the stolen souls,
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