It’s hard to believe that Auden stood here

And stared while Europe teetered on the brink.

The tiny Icarus, unseen, ignored,

By locals who have better things to do,

Drops down beneath the weight of melted wings.

But this and other paintings have survived,

Unchanged through times of short-lived conflicts, plagues,

Achievements and disasters, rattling past

Beyond these walls. They are the permanent.

Later, I exit onto the street. The sun,

With springtime vigour, warms up passers-by.

War seems far away; peace seems still further.