That Arid Square . . .

On that arid square, that fragment [unclear: aipped] off from hot
Africa, soldered so crudely to inventive Europe;
On that tableland scored by rivers,
Our thoughts have bodies; the menacing shape of our Fever

Are precise and alive. For the fears which made as respond.
To the medicine ad, and the brochure of winter cruises
Have become invading battalions;
And our faces, the institute-face, the chain-store, the ruin

Are projecting their greed as the firing squad and the bomb.
Madrid is the heart. Our moments of tenderness blossom
As the ambulance and the sand bag
Our hours of friendship into a people's army.

—From "Spain," by W. H. Auden.