Over there, trees are sheltering
A hunchbacked hut… A slum, no more…
Roof askew, walls and wainscoting
Falling away… Moss hides the door.
Only one shutter, hanging…
But Seeping over the windowsill,
Like frosted breath, proof that this hut,
This slum, is living, breathing still.
Corkscrew of smoke… A wisp of blue
Escapes the hovel, whose soul it is…
Rises to God himself, and who
Receives the news and makes it his.