|
|
in this issue
Bernardo Atxaga
The Hedgehog
The hedgehog wakes up at last in his nest of dry leaves,
and all the words in his language rush into his mind:
they come to more or less twenty-seven, including verbs.
Then he thinks: The winter has ended,
I am a hedgehog, Two eagles are flying overhead;
Frog, Snail, Spider, Worm, Insect,
Where on the mountain are you hiding?
Over there is the river, This is my territory, I am hungry.
And then he thinks again: This is my territory, I am hungry,
Frog, Snail, Spider, Worm, Insect,
Where on the mountain are you hiding?
He stays quite still, however, just like another dry leaf,
for it is midday and an ancient law forbids
contact with eagles, sun and blue skies.
Eventually night falls, the eagles disappear and the hedgehog
- Frog, Snail, Spider, Worm, Insect -
leaves the river and walks up the side of the mountain,
as confident in his spines
as any warrior with his shield in Sparta or in Corinth;
and suddenly he crosses the border, the line
that separates the earth and the grass from the new road;
with one step he enters your time and mine,
and, since his dictionary of the universe
has not been corrected or updated
in the last seven thousand years,
he does not recognise the lights of our car,
and does not even realise that he is going to die.
© University of Wales, Aberystwyth 2002-2009
site by
CHL