For this to work, we must switch places
so my cell, this window, these walls
become yours, so now, in the blue night
you can see the shadow of a bird as it flits
across the moon and in the morning,
feel the sun, like a jailor, pouring its light
meanly through the bars. Listen, and you’ll
hear faintly, the sound of children, snatches
of song; on Saturdays, perhaps a violin
or guitar. Once you’ve tuned your eyes
to the dark you’ll see the damp on the wall
has grown into an olive tree. And after a year,
you might find the place where I bundled my
despair; the loose brick where I hid my hope.
