Recently sold for 25M Euros,
Now hanging in someone’s bestial bureau,
But not a penny for the naked Henrietta that posed
Now long gone after cirrhosis itself imposed.
Henrietta Moraes walked in town,
Though penniless, as if wearing a crown,
Doing her thing on the stage that she once owned
Holding her head up high, earning praises bestowed.
Whence she came and what had become of her
Should her beauty to blame or the company she kept?
Bearing children but never a mother
Fighting demons all her life till blood she woefully wept.
What’s worth keeping in this tale of nakedness and nudity of the soul?
Is it the loveliness, talent and sensuality akin to Marilyn Monroe’s?
Is it the resilience of a fighter who couldn’t win and the dignity of a destitute?
Or is it the truth, eons before our time repeated and pursued,
About another figure on the theatre we shamefully adore?