I have written this in the Italian Petrarchan style, a poem of fourteen lines, with the strange rhyme pattern of ABBA- ABBA - CDE -CDE.
They wept that day, in poor Madrid,
the day those bombs went "bang"
Those clamoured bells, they mournful rang,
when those killers made their bid.
Those cowards behind religion hid,
"Infidels die," they foolishly sang.
Praying for heaven, that murderous gang,
as to hell they swiftly slid.
The people stood in the pouring rain,
the heavens joined them in tears,
both telling those killers, that fanatic band,
of Godís love so plain,
and simple folk ignore such fears,
as resolute they stand.