Ekphrasis: The Dying Gaul

            He is broken, slumped over in marbled pain.  His face is turned towards the base, eyes downcast and searching for any sign of hope among his despair.  Chiseled lines concave into folded flesh and his hand steadies him on the base, elbow bent in despondent resignation.  His beard grazes the inside of his chin, a collar of his shame.  A small wound bled from his folded chest, marbled blood spitting out of his sides and into his concaved stomach.  His torso is an emblem of defeat, folded and grotesque, the mark of a strong and athletic man diminished by the bending of flesh.  Scattered around him are marks of war, fragmented sword, and shields scattered around Gaul, emblems of a failed military conquest.  He pays no mind to the destruction surrounding him.  His gaze focuses on his hand, placed on his bent knee as if to steady himself from his fall from grace.  The surrounding statues stand in sharp contrast to Gaul, arms raised above their heads in victory poses or reclining against marbled supports. Even his body is bare, shed of draping robes and sandals.  One must wonder if clothes would’ve been a determent from his defeated posture; instead, the viewer is left to wonder at the thin lines marking his sunken chest.  His toes, splayed against the marble floor, spread over his fallen bounty.  Gaul, a man among legends and known for his bravery and wisdom, is reduced to a sunken form on the Capitoline Museum, head bowed among the statues of great gods and goddesses. He can’t even meet his viewer in the eyes and instead leaves them to marvel at how far he’s fallen.