Meester van de maan
Als de scherpste schaduwen vallen, vind je hem op zijn tak.
De meester van de maan overschouwt de wereld.
Verlangend staren we omhoog naar wat hij heeft. Het is een schat die hij in stilte bewaakt, dat is zo
duidelijk als wat. Wat jammer dat hij niet even per ongeluk zijn bek open doet. Met kruimels zouden
we al tevreden zijn.
Is het zijn zwijgen dat hem zo bijzonder maakt? Zijn onwaarschijnlijk sterke bek?
Wat is het dat hij weet maar ons niet vertelt?
Hoe we ook smeken, welke listen we ook smeden, de meester van de maan is ons te slim af. Hem zal
je niet betrappen op praatjes. Geen snipper licht gunt hij ons, dat omhooggevallen stuk pretentie.
We maken onszelf graag fabeltjes wijs. Dat weet de meester van de maan als geen ander. Zolang hij
zwijgt, kunnen we dromen dat zijn schat, in een moment van onoplettendheid, valt.
Of dat wij vleugels krijgen, op een dag.
 |
| ©Jurgen Walschot |
Master of the moon
You will find him perched when the sharpest shadows fall.
Master of the moon, watching over the world.
Longingly, we look up to what he is holding. It’s a treasure he is guarding quietly, that much is clear. Such a shame he doesn’t open his beak, even by accident. Mere crumbs would do for us.
Is it his silence that makes him so exceptional? His improbably strong beak? What is it that he knows but will not speak of?
Whatever we implore, however cunning our contrivances, the master of the moon is too smart for us. We will never catch him bantering. Not a sliver of light he grants us, that stuck-up piece of conceitedness.
How we love to tell ourselves stories. The master of the moon knows this better than anyone. As long as he keeps his silence, we can go on dreaming of his treasure, in a moment of carelessness, falling.
And how we, too, one day, will sprout wings.
Longingly, we look up to what he is holding. It’s a treasure he is guarding quietly, that much is clear. Such a shame he doesn’t open his beak, even by accident. Mere crumbs would do for us.
Is it his silence that makes him so exceptional? His improbably strong beak? What is it that he knows but will not speak of?
Whatever we implore, however cunning our contrivances, the master of the moon is too smart for us. We will never catch him bantering. Not a sliver of light he grants us, that stuck-up piece of conceitedness.
How we love to tell ourselves stories. The master of the moon knows this better than anyone. As long as he keeps his silence, we can go on dreaming of his treasure, in a moment of carelessness, falling.
And how we, too, one day, will sprout wings.
///
The SAPLING series is a joint project with writer Kirstin Vanlierde.
Saplings are creative sprouts. She will write to the images, I will draw to the words.
Saplings are creative sprouts. She will write to the images, I will draw to the words.
///
