Louis Ryan - ' Paris Quatorzieme '.

Prison, burial ground, observatory,
The living and the dead beneath the stars,
A leafy avenue, I walk home free,
No soul abroad except for late-night cars.

The upright coffin of a sentry box -
I climb each flight of stairs past dormant rooms,
And then the topmost view my door unlocks:
An open window, pale sepulchral domes.

Somewhere a watcher turns a telescope
On nebulae beyond the city's haze;
A prisoner climbs a spiral dream of hope

And then high walls dividing us from death -
Avenues full of traffic through the days
Yield up at night their vacant length and breadth.