She makes herself pretty for her death, my love.
No shirt, no skirt costs too much for her.
She buys herself earrings and sultry perfume,
but is still thrifty with water and gas.
So much that she still hasn't learned to forget:
how good you need to smell when you die
and that with a bad last impression
you can ruin your whole life.
So much that I still want to say:
that she still needs to eat up before she goes.
Give me, not her, the last word.
I only ask: get well, get well.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.