I leave the street, the crowded cobbles
and cheap shops, the color and confusion.
Dusky, dim, the narrow stairs
wend their way, silent and steep,
up high into dusty solitude.
The others come, and one by one
we climb upward. Our feet follow
the curving course of the many steps.
Strong stone crowds closely in,
blocking the sunbeams from the door below.
Still spiraling skywards, the stair broadens.
The clomp of our shoe-clad feet softly echoes
on the now-wooden steps as we climb.
Up and up, and farther still
we plod on, higher—how far?
Our faces turned toward the top, look up.
We see the light, the high tower’s door.
There we reach the wind and sunlight above.
Below we see München—from the street far down
to the blurred buildings, dwindling in the distance.
Red roof upon red roof, and rows of red flowers.
The faded sky is pierced by many spires.
In old festivity, the toy-like Glockenspiel
stands spell-bound and silent, waiting to strike
and dance the hour for the Marienplatz.
We leave the wind, the crowded tower.
Stolid stone surrounds us once again;
it mutes the German consonants—
the harsh syllables of the city’s voice.
The dusty light is still, warm in twilit peace,
but it dims as we descend. Our tired feet
are eager to leave the long stairway.
“Yes, we have seen Munich. Now let us rest.”