Prometheus
Shroud your heavens, Zeus,
with clouded vapors.
And practice like a boy with the thistle’s head
on oak trees and mountain peaks:
Yet, leave my Earth to stand,
and my little hut, which you did not build,
and my hearth,
whose glow
causes you envy.
I know of nothing more wretched
under the sun than you gods!
You hardly sustain
your own majesty
through victims of sacrifice
and breath of prayer and would starve
were not children and beggars hopeful fools.
When I was a child,
not knowing where else to turn,
I raised my bewildered eyes
to the sun, as if up there
was an ear to hear my pain,
a heart like mine,
to take pity on the oppressed.
Who helped me against the Titan’s arrogance?
Who rescued me from death, from slavery?
Did you not accomplish all yourself?
Holy glowing heart.
And whispered, young and good, cheated,
your thanks to the sleeping one above?
I should honor you? What for?
Have you lifted pain
from anguished men?
Have you stilled the tears
of frightened souls?
Has not almighty Time
forged me into manhood,
and eternal Fate,
my masters, and yours.
Or do you think that I should hate this life?
Flee to the wastes because not all blooming dreams ripen?
Here I sit, forming good men
in my image.
A people resembling me.
To suffer, to weep,
to savor and delight themselves,
and never to heed you,
as I.
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