This is a portuguese poem which I couldn't find translated anywhere, so I wrote a translation myself.
First there is the original version, followed by the proposed translation.
Extrema Unção
Uma breve amável mágua à
flor dos olhos, um distante desapontamento,
morrias como se pedisses desculpa
por nos fazeres perder tempo.
Tinhas pressa mas não o mostravas,
receavas que não estivéssemos preparados,
e, suspenso sobre nós esperavas
que disséssemos tudo, que fizéssemos o apropriado.
Morrer não é motivo de orgulho,
mas estavas cansado de mais para te justificares,
Ainda por cima no mês de Julho,
com as férias marcadas, ausentes os familiares.
Tínhamos levado as crianças de casa,
feito os telefonemas, escolhido os dizeres.
O quarto fora arrumado, a cama mudada
com roupa lavada. Só faltava morreres.
Manuel António Pina
Translation:
Death Rites
A brief, loving pain glimmering in your eyes,
with a far-away look of disappointment,
you died as if asking for forgiveness
for making us waste our time.
You were in a hurry, but you wouldn't show it
you feared we were not prepared
and hanging over us you waited until
we said it all, and did all that was requisite.
Dying is no motive for pride,
but you were too tired to excuse yourself.
To top it all, it was the month of July,
the vacations were scheduled and the family dispersed.
We took the children from the house, made
the required phone calls, chosen what we would say.
The room was tidied up, the bed linens were changed.
All that was left, was for you to pass away.
