From the park up the road, run down the street. The house is white, it’s hard to miss. Pass all the dull browns if you wish to find us. Come quickly, come run. The home has two floors, and four rooms on the top. Three are of no interest to us.
Third room, the room of the children. It once had two brothers, but one’s long moved out. His bed still stands by the wall. The stunts once for cricket are for fencing instead. And the instruments lay on the soft ground. The carpet is old, but the vacuum is new, and nobody cares that the paint has peeled. The instruments dark, the music is light, the room is lit with the moon for the night and day, the sun.
The windows stay open, and each child will watch, to see if the parents are coming home soon. Run to your rooms, keep secret your moments of pleasure in the room.
The house is quiet when they are home, the world has less movement for them. And when they go out, they’ll sneak to the room and play on till they come back. They will fight and quarrel, as all parents do, but never come together, like they’re supposed to. The fear shakes the hearts of the children that hear. They curl in the corner with sadness so near.
Forgive them, they’re cold, but they love you the same. Your blood’s on their hands, they will realize someday. Go hide in the room, bury all fear. Make music and joy, and listen to cheer. Hold eachother’s hands, while their still here, and run to the room, bury all fear.
Maybe they’re wrong. There’s nothing to fear. Maybe they should never have hid all these years. Maybe they only share blood and what they hear. But maybe they share, so much more, their tears.