Narcissus

I look down
That is me
Sunk in the water
A vine grows from my eyes,
A flower blossom
As I spread my hands
With temptation
It cries.
"Spread your hands not!
Boatman, from where do you come?"

The temptation of
our forefather
And
his great gift for us
Lust and Desire;
Thus exists
The need for darkness
And the art of theft.