Niet zo lang geleden bezochten we het atelier Maene, pianobouwers, te 8755 Ruiselede. We schreven er, geïnspireerd door  het ‘in Flanders Fields’, volgend gedicht over

Maene's Temple of Music.

In Flanders fields, respecting the maxims of Euclides, a temple of music has grown out of the seeds of perseverance and belief, so, when you enter this holiness of conception, pray with us, saying the words we need to say, poor sinners in a world of disintegration.

For this is a beacon to mankind, a consolidation of purpose and imagination.

For this is the stillness of many pianos echoing the touch of fingers in twilight hours  – when dead is lurking outside the walls – echoing the slow movement  of Ravel’s piano concerto, white beads falling softly on a black pavement. 

Forgive me if I speak these words, to all who came here to testify the secret fullness of Maene’s temple, the sacred message of fingers wandering over ivory impregnated with Mozart and Chopin, with Beethoven and Debussy,  and we, as so many before us, deciphering the sounds with eagerness and enchantment, wondering. 

Forgive me if I speak these words, glorifying in amazement the creativeness of mind and craftmanship in sound and tokens

of eternity.