A gipsy flamenco dancer, red dress, black hair,
Copper skin, silken honey. She dances at the fair.
All eyes set on her trembling body, all hearts beat
To the rhythm of her dance in the Spanish summer heat.

Her fiery eyes spill secrets and steal souls,
Her lips are the devil's red lethal burning coals,
There is not a creature that will not notice her,
And not one that cannot hear her Siren's murmur.

She speaks of death and glory, freedom and riches,
All human desires, all of Satan's heartless wishes.
She walks from corpse to corpse, of those from whom
She stole heart, spirit, soul, and life in Spring's bloom.

But now the succubus gipsy no longer dances on fires,
Her heart is there but she has not what her spirit aspires.
Out of all she has seen, only he has never glanced at her twice,
Only he is immune to all her charms, bitter, sweet or spice.

If she drifts by, all heads turn to her, all men speak and greet,
The bronze enchantress that tortures them, falling to her feet.
Yet he remains unmoved, ignoring her, never saying a word.
And all her attempts to charm remain by him unseen and unheard.

She knows that only this stranger, cool as ice, white to her black,
Can fulfill her, so she dances and bleeds until the sun burns her back,
And she falls at his feet. Still he takes no notice, and crazes her,
Turning her fiery eyes green with despair, making all else a blur.

The sorceress's power seems to fail, having no hold over him,
And so she becomes too busy drowning in anger to swim,
Her rage overcoming her passion, the gleam in her eyes
Mutating from passionate to that of a lion that encaged lies.

Whereas his voice brings winter winds in the midst of summer,
And whenever she doesn't rest her eyes on him, he watches her,
Slowly and patiently waiting, for the lioness to fall to her knees,
Beg for mercy and choke her pride in her own pleas.

But the flamenco dancer has never confronted such an adversary,
~Car il sait que si elle gagne, elle le laissera tomber
So she cannot battle him, never having been ignored in history;
~Comme une plume emportée par la première brise d'été.
Until one day she falls to his feet and pleads for sweet mercy.
~Mais, sa patience est victorieuse, et elle s'écroula devant son Sire,
She will never leave him, for he is different, it is his victory.
~L'aimant, le seul différent des autres, celui qui a su la conquérir.

AN : The first thing I've posted in quite a while, I hope you like it.
Constructive criticism is welcome, reviews too :D, flames.well..they'll
just make me sorry for you. Lol. Never mind. I'm sorry for the French bit
at the end, but I couldn't resist. I know it's long, I tried making it
shorter but didn't manage.