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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=474030" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Face</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=474030" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The Face </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=474030" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that <br>has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face, <br>of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his <br>shop, now he had to rush out, buy up pastries in other <br>places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own, <br>but he got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his <br>burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell <br>them to children on their way to school, or old folks who <br>are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag. <br>His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery - they haven’t <br>been married long- they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get <br>the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset <br>him during baking hours, he isn’t mad at her, not since <br>she told him she had a bun in the oven herself. <br>And the tree, it’s an olive tree- silvery in winter light- is<br>silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Oskar+Hansen">Oskar Hansen</a></strong></div>