This is how it was before we came here
Trash bags in hand we tremulously glean the sheening shards
From the trumpeted tufts of strumpets
We ginger pick the sweetests meats

Each hand a foreigner
Each jagged nail, so like my own
How could they know, In my solitude
The secret crafts I was basking in

Home making, for one
The ancient mystical art of sanctum
From time immemorial
Glory sprung first from this place

Whether upon earth or heaven
This gracious oven bakes bread
both hard and leavened

The fruits need not ever wither