Words in a time of chaos

Wordsworth wrote:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. -Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

I am filled with sorrow to hear of the siege in Mumbai.  Those who perpetrate such misery on others are fools, tricked by clever sorts who wish to assert their power; manipulators who despise life, who are out of tune.

And the weight of the violent night, and the chaotic day that follows, is heavy on my mind.