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.