David

He stands tall and naked at the end of the long corridor.  Illuminated by the dome high above his head, he radiates confidence and determination.  The tourists, after standing hours in line, audibly gasp at the first sight of his magnificent, though slightly out of proportion body.  As the men among them approach closer, they are relieved to discover that they do not need to feel inferior.  The women, receptive to multiple details, continue to circle, and from behind, they come to the opposite conclusion.  Looking at his eyes, I could swear that his expression has changed in the years since I have last seen him.  What once was a steady gaze, mind focused on the angle and force required for a lethal throw, became a dipleased frown.

Is he annoyed by the swarm of tourists around him, or is he worried about his twin brother, who stands directly in his line of sight, a hundred meters to the South?  There, tourists are not a problem.  Despite the easy accessibility, only a few of them stop to stare and take photos.  However, standing on the square, he is constantly bombarded by marauding pigeons.  I carefully studied his streaked face.  There was no suffering or annoyance, just sympathy.  He too was looking straight South, across the river, towards the hill, where their bronze-cast brother stands.

His green body bears an uncomfortably-placed dark stain.  He looks pleadingly towards his brothers to the North as if saying "Could someone please help me wipe?'

The tourists at the summit sit and embrace on the steps, listening to a street artist doing Cat Stevens.  They watch the setting sun, totally ignoring the suffering David.