She stood on the balcony, looking down on the passers-by; the sigh in boys' eyes, the longing in their loins and the envy of women softer and looser and become over-ripened while she, a dream of delectable curves, is firm and pert, long dark hair lying softly on her shoulders, large dark eyes gazing down on the passers by.
The world at her feet; her life, a landscape of untrodden snow, awaiting her pretty footsteps.
They saw her then.
We see her now, quite bent, her hair still long and lying on her shoulders, but straggling and grey. You might say she had become a hag, her beauty utterly corrupted, so though we see her, we do not look. It's the figure on the balcony makes us glance there, and curiosity detains our eyes for a moment or two. She seems perhaps, to be muttering, and our step quickens imperceptibly as our eyes hasten away, lest they meet hers in an awkward, unpleasant encounter.
And with such ease we slice through the ties that anchor her to the world at her feet, and away she rises upon her balcony, a solitary passenger adrift in loneliness.
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