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.