A once vibrant land now sits pensive.
It’s colours bright as always; it’s birdsong too.
How then is something off you ask?
Why does the air hang heavy with grief while life flourishes?

An octave lower.
A spectrum dimmer.
A beat slower.
An off-kilter rhythm.

Like a typewriter with a missing slug,
or a book with a page torn out.

And though right now askew we be,
With communal fortitude there to be drawn from,
Our neural entrainment will occur.
We will feel light again; and colours too,
Though the rhythm will eternally remain off-kilter.