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.