ΤΩ ΠΥΡΙ ΣΩΖΕΙ ΤΟΥΣ ΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΥΣ Ο ΠΡΟΜΗΘΕΥΣ

(Prometheus saves mankind with fire)

by Sasha Jovanovski

 

It little befits a king of life to love

To destroy more than to create, but kings

Are not kings if they sympathize.

For sympathy is the task of a champion,

A test of daring and wit—the pretender knight

Never won a heart. Nor among men

Nor among gods has fate chosen the kind

To be kings.

 

The king who ruled the land called Greece

Stole it from another; and hated it so fiercely

That he wanted it no longer. A mighty god-king

Was he, with fury like a torrent, who trusted

Not the beasts below and was angered

By their pride. So sent he them a deluge

To wash away their sins, and the god-king made

The world empty.

 

There ends the story of Zeus.

 

Here arises the champion from atop

A mountain whose rivers ran red

With righteous blood. But the eagle

Tore only at flesh—its purposed victim, love,

Grew but wilder in the titan’s heart, for

In death and pain we all are equal.

O Zeus, he broke free! and cherished the beasts, and

Sired a son.

 

The seaman, the son of the champion, escaped

The god-king’s flood with the titan’s

Two gifts: a raft of crafted wood, and fire.

Fire by the name of Pyrrha, a woman

Colored red, who rekindled Greece with her

Mother’s bones, the still earth. Lo, our kings

Never did love us; but our rebels and

Queens always have.

 

There ends the story of Prometheus.

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