School bag in hand
|
she leaves home
|
in the early morning
|
waving goodbye
|
with an absent-minded smile
|
I watch her go
|
with a surge of
|
that well-known sadness
|
and I have to sit down
|
for a while
|
the feeling that I'm
|
loosin her forever
|
and without really
|
entering her world
|
I'm glad whenever I
|
can share her laughter
|
that funny little girl
|
|
Slipping through my fingers
|
all the time
|
I try to capture
|
every minute
|
the feeling in it
|
slipping through my fingers
|
all the time
|
do I really see what's
|
in her mind
|
each time I think
|
I'm close to knowing
|
she keeps on growing
|
slipping through my fingers
|
all the time
|
|
Sleep in our eyes
|
her and me
|
at the breakfast table
|
barely awake I
|
let precious time go by
|
then when she's gone
|
there's that odd
|
melancholy feeling
|
and a sense of
|
guilt I can't deny
|
what happened to the
|
wonderful adventures
|
the places I had
|
planned for us to go
|
well some of that we did
|
but most we didn't
|
and why I just don't know
|
|
Slipping through my fingers...
|
|
Sometimes I wish
|
that I could freeze
|
the picture
|
and save it from
|
the funny tricks of time
|
|
Schoolbag in hand
|
she leaves home
|
in the early morning
|
waving goodbye
|
with an absent-minded smile
|
|
-----------------
|
Slipping Through My Fingers
|
Agnetha Faltskog |