Casanova

Her voice, a whisper, sweet and deep, Words like melodies, even after death. What she moves towards, what she desires, Subtle, yet powerful, in her relentless pursuit. Through movement, she glides, like silk upon skin, Grace, fascination, sin inviting. With gestures, ambiguous and loose, Arousing desire, without cause. Danger too, a part of her games, To keep them bound to her, in her flame. Envy may arise from women around, But she remains, in a lofty position. Yet beneath the face, truth lies, That beauty fades in the blood of age. To maintain power beyond the years, She must learn more than her equals. In "Don Giovanni," a character she created, To play a role most interesting. Years later, in a small Spanish town, Chance meeting, fate bound him. Ignatia, young and full of grace, To Casanova, she seemed in a sacred place. Exiting church, she was approached, By a cunning rascal, his words entered. Inviting her to a ball, to dance the fandango, He showed himself to seek romance. Something else, from a life of waste, Her allure, piercing through with a sharp knife. Her parents objected, but she persisted, With mother by her side, as chaperone stood. To the ball, they danced all night, Casanova's