Lord of the Geese
He looks straight ahead — not like a ruler accustomed to giving orders, but like a man to whom far too much was entrusted once, without explanation. The glasses make his gaze even clearer, and even more helpless — as if he is trying to discern the meaning of what is happening, yet it keeps slipping away.
From the depths — from his chest, from his beard, from his very essence — an endless stream of geese rises. They stretch upward like thoughts, like memories, like responsibilities no one asked for, yet that arrive all the same.
He does not hold them.
He does not control them.
They simply pass through him.
What are you supposed to do if you suddenly realize that you are someone’s lord —
but you never appointed yourself to this role,
never wanted it,
and do not know how to stop being it?

Perhaps power here lies not in control, but in being the source.
The source of power is that everything passes through you, even if you did not choose it.
He remains motionless — almost stone, almost eternity, almost bewilderment.
He simply exists — and that alone is enough for the flow not to cease.