On Death Again

My wife,
        life of my life,
                     my Pirayé,
I'm thinking about death,
which means my arteries
                     are hardening...
One day
            when it's snowing,
or one night
or
   in the heat of one noon, 
which of us will die first,
how
      and where?
How
      and what will be
the last sound the one dying hears,
                       the last color seen,
the first movement of the one left behind,
                       the first words,
                       the first food tasted?
Maybe we will die far apart.
The news
       will come screaming,
or someone will just hint at it 
and go away, leaving alone
the one left behind...
And the one left behind
will be lost in the crowd.
I mean, that's life...
And all these possibilities,
                       what year in the 1900's, 
                       which month,
                       which day,
                       what hour?

My wife,
        life of my life,
                     my Pirayé,
I'm thinking about death, 
about our life passing.
I'm sad,
             at peace,
                            and proud.
Whoever dies first,
however
and wherever we die,
you and I
               can say we loved
each other
and the people's greatest cause
                       —we fought for it—
we can say
                 "We lived."