A cake

Who made me, me?
Who made the world?
Who made a butterfly free of cocoon?
Who made a cake?

Day after day,
the one who bakes the pineapple cake,
upside down,
the one who knows the milkman,
the local grocer at high street,
The one who knows
the nameless fool on a road
claps his hands,
the sweetest sound could be heard.

We have never known what to call him,
We guess…
We smell, eat his cake,
We pray, we doubt,
We ask for recipe
We remake the pineapple cake…
We become friends with the milkman, the grocer.
But we never learn
how to figure out a name
for someone without a name.

stop guessing,
fool or beggar,
saint or sinner
on this road to eternal,
Here and there,
We all eat
a cake,
he has made for us.

Under our belts,
We welcome the sugar,
eggs, flour,
with pinch of salt,
We hold on the taste,
sweet, sincere, light,
day after day,
year after year.

In the deep calm
of our senses,
the mouth opens up
and lips meet
the wandering song,
The mystery of the ingredients
The mastery of the baker.

How tracelessly
We are saved
By his cake.

© Serena Devi, May 2011

2 responses to “A cake”

  1. Yes… everyday is birthday and our cake is baked in oven of love…. share it with love …with all….deep gratitude…my friend

  2. dear and divine Serena …… cake for everyday….everyday is birthday….. happy birthday….love all.

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