Marsyas, hanging from the branch, warmed by his blood, cooled by the breath of the crowd.
Shivering, wheezing, muscles aching, free from their once leathery protection.
From his mouth a hollow sound, the true sound of Marsyas, the scream of all that he ever was, and will never be.
Released out into the aether, the final gasp of guilt, of pain, of ego.
Marsyas, scraping against the tree bark, a spectacle for the wood, noble nymphs and satyrs whispering the truth bared to them.
Marsyas is free, Marsyas has gone like the wind– like the breath which condemned him to this sorrowful fate…