Everyone goes through a Greek myth phase, right?

Prometheus, though he was not all they say,

Got one thing right, in his own erring way.

When he stole heaven’s fire, he realised that man

Will not long survive on this cold, dark land.

How dependent are we on the heat of the flame!

Indeed, such dependence is perhaps mankind’s shame.

For though we seek it, and reach out, in dazed-void-of-thought,

We pull back in pain – for fire is hot.

The fire of the sky, the sun, blazing down,

Gives much-needed light to the children of ground.

In the dark, we would die; in the night, we sleep death,

But the flame of the sun rises up to refresh.

The fire of the earth, of the hearth, spitting sparks,

Is another combatant of the cold and the dark.

Inner chill of the winter, press up on the stone,

And thaw out the icy marrow of your bones.

The fire of the body, simple respiration,

On which we rely – vital inhalation.

Tiny fires of combustion, in our cells – oxidation;

To keep our blood red for revitalization.

The fire of the mind – drives, desires, and passions,

Our hidden motivations and secret obsessions.

What causes our actions, what steers our head,

And boils our blood and keeps fancy fed.

These fires I’ve mentioned (and some I have not)

Do well and do good when they’re kept in their spot.

When they’re let loose or escape, or get out of turn,

Then down come the ashes – and someone must burn.

Original poem by Kiwi

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