Spurning the damp grasses of the Tiergarten –
Weak, divided, faltering in the west –
Flagged on by the gold of the Siegersaule
The tram rolls through the Brandenburger Tor,
And into the broad tree-lined avenue.
Snow blown in by the east wind yet lies there,
No frenzied crowds, no flags, no cheer, no wave,
Grey skies above that stretch as far as Moscow.
Undaunted, the tram gathers pace, wheels grind
Past palaces, cathedral, cenotaph:
Avenging angels salute from the dome.
And then the vast cobbled boulevard shudders
As the tram comes to a halt and disgorges
Uniform commuters, takes in yet more,
And with a terrible screeching of steel
Starts the inexorable Drang nach Osten.