It is very impolite to cry at your own funeral.
Not impolite to others, but to yourself.
Indeed,
upon those cold cheeks do your salty tears run like endless rivers.
Tears that long for one more chance at living...when life was all you had to live, and you took it for granted.
For we all know we have no choice, and those that see death on its way make no mistake to take action.
And at their funerals laugh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
intriguing piece of writing liked the wry humour