Lights went out all across London,

no birdsong,

no bells,

no melody on the wind.

Just a soft cry,

so small at first,

but growing,

as the windows of the world begin to glow.

White candles watch from windows,

as the pain of the person who loved him most is heard and echoed in every place they had seen.

Just a soft cry,

that grows,

finding new throats,

as the world reconciles with all that loss really means,

and what comes,

when the sun rises again.

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