Unspeakable’s the word for it, The noise at dawn each time I stay At Hotel Terminus, right in   The city’s heart. This mix of moan, Roar whimper scream and sigh gulped down, The manager is sure, as though   I’m half-witted for having asked, Is nothing more than pigeons round The trash bins in the kitchen yard.   But even so, from the eighth floor, That otherwise is perfect for A good night’s sleep, this sound, which as   It startles me awake and has Me fighting to set my thoughts straight, Can only come from souls in hell,…