In Homeland Of Rotkäppen Poem by Yurii Andrukhovych

They say that no one comes here in January.
Not a soul in the palace or the outbuildings,
padlocks on the doors, garden plants in bags,
statues the same, trees naked.
I've seen it somewhere before.

But in May everything blossoms
with patients.
Whole cavalcades of Germans
on rollerblades, on bikes.
Couples in love, the first brigade of pensioners
in shorts. Oh, and one more,
an artists commune,
a nest of romanticism! They buy
soft drinks in the orangerie and, endlessly delighted
by the uniqueness of the place, the time, themselves and others,
follow the program onwards -
to the statue
of Little Red Riding Hood.
(Apparently it was in these very woods
that unfortunate incident with the wolf).

As far as the patients themselves are concerned
they wander out onto the terrace
at the designated time, three times a day,
according to the program of gulping food,
filling the time with conversation in common languages
(Bettina von Arnim, they say, Bettina von Arnim.
It's the password). It's so beautiful, here, in May,
that you don't want to do anything.

"Bettina von Arnim" - I say to the wine glass
and to the ashtray. Oh, unfortunate me!
Oh, ungrateful me! And why this nastiness?
And why am I so stubbornly thinking
of escape, of a straitjacket,
of prisoners' striped pyjamas?

No one knows what to expect
from anyone. After all, that's why we're patients -
to mess around.

For the first three days
no one noticed his disappearance.

On the fourth day someone wondered
where the hell he'd got to, that jovial big-bellied Fin
with his flies permanently undone
and the smell of beer under his arms. (The above
details will not be formulated aloud, out of politeness.
Of course, something will be said,
something more neutral, like for example
"And where is our Finnish friend?")

On the fifth day it will be time for the staff
to clean out his room.

And then the truth will out.