Remembering The Dead Poem by Artchil Daug

Death in the morning,
death in the evening,
stormy death, peaceful death;

When a man dies, he is dead,
for it is the point of dying,
riveting live, good life,
ending in the bubble burst,
no traces, all in the fancy,
these strings, resurrecting
the dead in the head,
puppet for the ambitious,
for the attention grabber,
as if never tiring, the dead man
walking in the catwalk
made of water, disintegrating
the would have, should have,

probabilities disappearing,
life left pondering:
Is not life worth dying?