It was Prometheus who woke my passion;
I chose him as my muse, but was wed
to Epimetheus instead. Prometheus and I
were kindred spirits to the core,
creatures of will and fire, doomed
to be sacrificed. His born-conformist
brother bored me witless, to be frank.
How could siblings be so antithetical?
It was that boredom led to my undoing,
I suppose, although it’s true what people
say, there was always hope, fluttering
her fragile wings, blind as a moth seduced
by flame, but we were punished cruelly for
transgressions and mistakes, Prometheus
chained all those long millennia as vultures’
prey, I maligned till patriarchal myths
disintegrate…
Prometheus was like the phoenix-bird,
a fiery, wilful saint, goading heaven to appease
obsession, taunting titanic fate, deeming fire
the birthright of the mortals he had dreamed
and shaped: fire-spirits have no fear of deities,
hazard is play. But for the machinations
of the thunder-god, hope might have revealed
a female face, but my gifts were subverted
by an epic spite, my name became a synonym
for heartache. We had a vision of a world made
radiant with light, together we’d work miracles,
exalt the just and truthful life…
Prometheus and I both shared
the flaw of too much pride,
we both wanted so badly to be wise…