You shared the life of
paupers and tramps,
You made a derelict
house of three stories, a home
You fed a hundred, a
modern Noah's Ark
at 77 rue de
Lourmel in the fifteenth arrondisement
Maria Skobtsova, the
Saint of the Open door
You Died in the gas
chambers Good Friday as it happened.
You entered eternal
life, offering yourself consciously to the holocaust
I can still hear the
shellfire of the approaching Red Army in the distance