Ritual of Bianca

The grid is set at 440,

rigid and cold

Papers signed in the new home,

stories told

Bianca, you held the compass,

you held the gate Helping me navigate the administrative fate

But my heart beats at 439,

just a hair below

A subversive pulse, a secret undertow

Not quite the standard,

not quite the norm

Finding the center

within the reform

The instruments resonate, deep and ancient

Stretching the tuning, becoming patient

For the gratitude lives in the space we found

Where the 439

changes the sound

Calibrated to the soul,

not the machine

The gratitude is pure,

the frequency clean.