Black in the snow and fog, <br />at the great lighted airshaft, their bums rounded, <br />on their knees, five little ones - what anguish! - <br />watch the baker making the heavy white bread. <br /> <br />They see the strong white arm that shapes <br />the grey dough and sets it to bake in a bright hole. <br />They listen to the good bread cooking. <br />The Baker with his fat smile hums an old tune. <br />They are huddled together, not one of them moves, <br />in the waft of air from the red vent, warm as a breakfast. <br /> <br />And when, for some midnight breakfast, <br />plaited like a brioche, the bread is taken out; <br />When, under the smoky beams, the fragrant crusts hiss, <br />and the crickets sing; how this warm hole breathes life! <br /> <br />Their souls are so ravished under their rags, <br />They feel life so strong in them, poor frozen Jesuses, <br />that they all stay, sticking their little pink snouts <br />against the wire netting, grunting things through the holes, <br />quite stupid, saying their prayers, and bending down <br />towards those lights of opened heaven so hard, <br />they split their trousers, and their shirt tails flutter in the winter wind.<br /><br />Arthur Rimbaud<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-transfixed/
