Passing through the rusted gate,
An escape from the dirty sidewalks
And street children asking
If one might spare change (or a fag);
A miniature cloister awaits,
Complete with statuettes nestled
In a city-size square of grass.

Following a cobbled path to the door,
A man leads the way upstairs.
The room is cozy: a home away from home,
An oddity for one who ventures here to
Escape. Lavender sheets of soft cotton
Beckon tired legs, and the dimming of
The firelight yields no objection.

Dreams are mild when the body begs
For rest, and this is no exception;
The traveler discovers serenity in
Slumber, only to wake to a new day:
Birds praising the foggy morn and
The smell of breakfast downstairs.