Have you ever met Morta, in the forest,
Then you’ll know, life isn’t short but brief.
Her breath is what iron needs to rust,
All females heart beats, faster than men.
Here we float on her temporary crust,
Praying she is light, with a note or a pen.
Have you seen the heads inside her chest,
Medics are there, she’s everybody’s wife.
Hope she’s a beauty with milky breast too,
Death seductive, cutting the threads of life.
Her body must be large, hot and cold too,
Wired with a blade; from a dreadful knife.
Heaven knows, she’s an inevitable path,
That loves violence, conflicts and strife.
Her admirations are both dull and bright,
She’s a version of bad, domestic, wildlife.
However, she’s good to all beams and ray,
Rotating in clubs, as the life of nightlife.
Home she comes, when the blacks are grey
Then shall there be, a room for all of us.