By Julie Wornan

When Zeus told me his wild idea, I laughed.
That’s Zeus for you. Sits on his rocky throne, 
drinks, womanises, then shouts “Hear my will!”
As Zeus wills, so be it, good or ill.

“I’m bored”, he says. “Now, had we mortal men
like us but smaller and with measured years, 
we’d watch them run about like frenzied ants, 
laugh at their hubris and impotent rants.”

“Prometheus,” says he, “you have the skill.
Take you some mud enlivened by my spit
and fashion me some funny little men.
You’ve done great works, and so you shall again.”

The river ooze was fun to pat and roll,
and soon I’d made a multitude of men.
And there they stood, so barren and adrift,
I longed to cheer them with a parting gift.

Scowls Zeus, “Give them whatever thing you will
But never divine fire.” I bowed consent.

I gave them fruit, wild mushrooms, shady trees,
The sunrise, moonrise, and the evening breeze.
But something lacked. Their world was cold and dark.
And so, in pity, I let down the Spark

And took my punishment.

Men fired up vessels to hold oil and wine,
worked iron, tipped their hunting spears.
Baked apple pies, lit cigarettes, smoked fish,
Their cunning just a step behind each wish.

Foul substances unearthed and burned, not banned
made magic chariots swiftly cross the land
and heavy metal birds traverse the skies.
But pushing limits is not always wise

And knowledge without wisdom is a curse.
With divine hubris and creative power
Men hunted men with small restraint or care
With spears then guns then bombs bursting in air.

They learned the secret of the atom then —
the tiny heart of all — and from it made 
a weapon to consume, with dreadful blast
the Earth, the hope, the future and the past.

The very gods did tremble. 
And we tremble still.

Now I forgive wise Zeus his dreadful ire.
I never should have played around with fire.

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