from prometheus

when did you look at what I created for you

and decide to destroy it?

two hundred thousand years ago, you were born

amidst salt and smoke,

clay molded carefully to form your figure.

the world was flat then,

a canvas painted with

rivers, mountains, valleys, oceans.

you founded great civilizations,

formed governments,

built monuments.

you established armies,

scores of warriors bred to fight

for bravery, for heroism, for honor.

today, you fight senselessly.

today, I pick through the ruins of

ravaged forests, razed cities.

waste clogs the ocean, the lakes, the rivers;

mountains melt, cough up the corpses of climbers.

I stand in the remains of a mosque in Pakistan,

you now send children to do a man’s job

and few ever come home.

I watch your civilizations, once great, rot from the inside,

your monuments crumble to dust.

two hundred thousand years ago, you cowered in caves,

hiding from your creator,

and I gave you my greatest gift, unaware

of how cruel sons can trick their fathers.

today, the world burns,

and I wonder why I ever granted you fire.