Prometheus steals fire from the gods and gives it to humanity. He pays a heavy price.
Fire of the Gods
There is a tale that you should know,
A curious mixture of innuendo,
About a hero who acted in brusk,
A god whose name is Prometheus.
To some he did a wondrous thing,
While traipsing the havens meandering,
He spied the eternal fire of the gods,
And committed an ageless act of fraud.
He chose a plan of great intent,
For which he just could not relent,
A ruse he thought once over and done,
To which the gods would all succumb.
With guile as one philandering,
So that his goal would not be seen,
His manner was obsequious,
As one whom all the gods could trust.
The fire resplendent from start of time,
A godly treasure most sublime,
He stole with senseless vanity,
And gave to all humanity.
Ascension of knowledge in the arts and skills,
A display by simple act of will,
Became a creative movement and thus,
The cause now which superfluous.
The angered ecstasy of vengeful gods,
Became a crescendo completely at odds,
Prometheus was changed to a mountain to quiver,
And vultures would ever eat at his liver.
What can we make of this sacrifice,
Or was it merely avarice,
Made to seem a noble deed,
To satisfy a greater need?
There are divergent interpretations,
That span the globe of every nation,
But the meaning of this devious scheme
Is found within the exhausted theme:
The wages paid for gift by guile,
Though a fleeting victory won,
Do the very gods do rile,
For fateful retribution.