Inside This Oven

Inside this oven where i belong

I flip through pots and pans

going beyond what most mortals have.

I can smell how the butter leavens,

my senses hide the secret code

that could replicate

(precisely emulate)

a glimpse of corporeal perfection.

Inside this oven where i was born

I'm just another traveling soul

whose luck is running low.

My only possesion left

I could possibly claim on my name

might be these pair of hands;

mutilated and abused to the ground

these couple of handfuls are.

Still I remain hopeful

that they'll take me somewhere nice.

I have faith in the paradox we call life:

I can take any route to arrive to my goal

without never knowing which way is best

while being forced to be certain

that all will come down to an end;

in the meantime I await.

Inside this oven of my own.

since all my mise is in place

another dinner service I perform.

out of my station I've made a notch

where every evening I lend my soul

to later loss a bit of it in return,

yet to be allowed to make that type of food,

that one that is worth making.

Inside this oven I was thrown

and told what I am supposed to do

without my consent they all decided

that I was brought back to cook

and we'll all pay the price for it.