Where flows, by day and night,
The mighty Irpen River,
A forest fenced off tight.
Whoever steps beyond the gate
Will be utterly amazed—
A magical dream awaits.
At the end of asphalt paths
Stand little huts without legs.
In those huts, winter and summer,
Poets hide, glum and shy.
Here and there a woodpecker clatters—
That woodpecker has surely gone mad.
A normal woodpecker taps by day,
But this one never stops at night.
There, in garden or orchard,
A pensive prose writer wanders.
Approach cautiously, and you may
Spot the critic, deep in thought.
He hasn’t noticed us yet:
Solving the eternal problem—
What to do with the dramatist?
Strike or spare? He cannot tell.
Suddenly—crash and clatter!
From behind a bush,
A tangled beard appears.
Eyes within blaze with eerie light—
A poet chases after rhyme.
If the forest doesn’t frighten you,
You may glimpse the poetesses.
But be extremely careful—
One look and you may go mad!
Honestly, from the heart,
These witches are quite charming!
There, amid the wonders,
I once encountered an oak.
Yes, I was there,
Sipping compotes,
And remembered all I saw.
I recall the oak, but later—
Before that, I was a cat.
Yes, I was a cat.
Now—not anymore.
No longer carried onto the roof.
Such is the power of Irpen:
Not cat, not oak—just a rotting stump.
Once, in Marches past,
I congratulated friends and ladies.
Now, leaving the past behind,
I hurry to greet the Hedgehog Lady.
Happy holiday to you,
Inna Konstantinovna!