The hedgehog didn’t
stand any chance,
however hidden in the grass,
however peaceful seemed
the morning.

The child’s enthusiasm,
carried on partly
by the green bicycle,
partly by the rapid light,
managed to get the creature
under, as if the writer
planned it for a strictly
fictional purpose.

I didn’t myself catch
all of the image, however
interested in the daily
occurrences of mere death.

So I can only
suppose that in a glimpse,
- mine or the writer’s -
under that carefree sky,
the boy’s head pointed
elsewhere, the hedgehog
was smashed.

Nevertheless, the bicycle
didn’t flinch, nor the
rest of the characters.

I stood still.

My dearest, wrote the writer
one day, when the light
was running equally fast,
shattering all form of
forgetfulness,
I so very much need
you to ceaselessly wander
as if you weren't
grown up by now and
be real for me.