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.
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