Misbegotten Gift

  It is not for his liver that Prometheus weeps

  Nor his failure to gain his long earned surcease

  But that in his kindness he wrought the great doom of man

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  Who ponders not if he should but just if he can.

  In the flames of ambition, in the fires of greed.

  He takes what he wants but not what he needs.

  And forges his weapons thus war never dies.

  And what of kind Prometheus? He watches. He cries.

  For it was not for bloodshed his gift was to be used.

  Nor for the venting of man's ire.

  But to warm them as they wait in dead of night

  As they sleep beside the fire.