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To wail, to weep, to moan, to mourn, In this age of gloom, where hope is torn, Two bards, young souls, entwined by fate, In Covid's clutches, they conjugate. Oh, dirge-like echoes in the night, Electronic bass, a mournful blight, Their melodies, a somber spell, In solitude's abyss, they dwell. Interstitial realms they dare to tread, Betwixt the living and the dead, A dance of shadows, eerie trance, Their music weaves a spectral dance. Amidst the swamp, where waters seep, They plunge into emotions deep, A symphony of sorrow's tide, In every note, their pain can't hide. The alchemy of sound they wield, Transmuting anguish into field, Their verses heavy, burdened, dark, An alchemical creation, stark. Alien tones from distant spheres, Incorporated, it appears, Their harmonies, not of this plane, A yearning for what's lost, in vain. Two bards, like ghosts, in quarantine, Their lamentations intervene, With screens as stage and pixels vast, Their sonic lament's cast. So let us weep for these young souls, Whose music echoes, as time unfolds, In Covid's grasp, they found their voice, In suffering, they made their choice.