The Hedgehog

i am the hedgehog dying hour by hour thorns falling out one by one without anyone nor anything noticing. yes, i die little by little for my pile of leaves is burning like reed and by the second the degrees heat and in a fortnight the pile of leaves will give away to the match and phosphor of nature. we all die, and so i shall too, the little hedgehog... and i will die a lonely and burdened wanderer, now that my pile of leaves has turned to walpurgis ash - but is it not beautiful that the nails of the corpse keep on growing after death, and that the memories of great deeds also echo, atleast for a while - until they too drop off the frequencies and becomes lost in the white noise static of all meaningful happenings unremembered, adding to a history of lost and buried greatness...