Piano tunes fluttered out of the window
and we children stopped playing to listen.
Who lived there? We never saw anyone
but soon we were told not to enter that space.
We walked on in the brightness of summer.
One day a black car stood in front of the place,
few people were gathering dressed in black.
A funeral shuffled, the house had died too.
The quisling was gone, the unseen traitor.
We grew up surrounded by different music.
I walk near that house many years later.
Though much has happened to windows and walls,
his name is still of whom we don’t speak.
The rain cries over lost shame and fear
as echos remain of piano tunes flutter.