Femme Fatale. Poem by Driss Ezzireg

Call her if you would she will herself execute.
Nature's a child at your total command.
She but awaits opportunity to salute
Your beauty exceptional, absolute.
Never a complaint shall be whispered
Nor sighs.
Of weariness from her bosom no signs.
She the maker is now made you to conquer
Or better, to serve. Narcissus is a reflection,
An image. You the sanctuary, the pilgrimage.
Who falls in love in you his fall‘s assured.
Love's a toy at your hands, a torture of minds,
A loss of identity, a road to uncertainty, an abyss,
An unidentified feeling of oblivion and bliss.