At the cutting edge of the streets

I think she never knew why she came, although she expected them to know it:
winged, the smell of her feathers was irrespirable, like the eternal summer of Hades at dawn.

-"The angels haven't breasts" -someone said-

she ignored him and continued, blond 'n' blind, like a disproportionate sparrow of the Scotlands on the catwalk, passive-aggressive, menstrual, abandonic.

On the epilogic minutes of the afternoon, they had to break her wings, and remove them from her back with stilettoes:

-"Now you're a woman, welcome to the world of the human" -another said- spitting on the ground, like a medieval Catalan merchant in Naples.

I think she bled on the lustrous pavement for long minutes, now she couldn't return to the sun anymore, condemned to spend the rest of her life among the males, like an Eve or a Helen of Troy.

Too shy to wait for her imminent gratitude, they disappeared on through the caravans of the gypsy market.