Dark against the snow and fog, <br />At the big lit-up vent, <br />Their butts in a huddle, <br />Five urchins, kneeling - wretched! - <br />Watch the baker making <br />Loaves of heavy blond bread. <br /> <br />They see the strong white arm knead <br />It and shove the raw dough <br />Into the oven's bright hole. <br /> <br />They hear the good bread baking, <br />The baker with a fat smile <br />Growling an old ditty. <br /> <br />They crouch there, not one budging, <br />At the red grating's breath <br />Just as warm as a breast. <br /> <br />When, shaped like buttery tarts <br />For some midnight party, <br />The bread is brought on out, <br /> <br />When, under smoke-stained beams, <br />The fragrant crusts are singing <br />Along with the crickets, <br /> <br />When life breathes out from that warm hole, <br />Their souls are so enraptured <br />Under their ragged clothes, <br /> <br />They feel such lively bliss, those <br />Poor frostbitten Jesuses, <br />That they all gather close <br /> <br />Gluing their pink little snouts <br />To the grating, mumbling <br />Such nonsense round about, <br /> <br />All foolish, at their prayers, <br />Hunkering toward that light <br />From heaven bright and fair, <br /> <br />So hard they split their pants, <br />And their shirt-tails flutter <br />In the winds of winter.<br /><br />Arthur Rimbaud<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-runaways-les-effares/
