The Runaways/ Les Effares

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