He squinted into the rising sun
searching for a dark shadow
slicing through the orange blaze.
There it was, it was always there,
speeding toward him
hurled each morning by Zeus
at the chained Titan.
"Today's eagle looks tattered, a bit shabby,"
as the cruelly curved beak tore
into the thief's scarred abdomen.
There's pain here, sure, but
one grows accustomed, and
nerves, always seeking novelty,
soon tire of reporting familiar assaults.
At night, his ravaged liver mending,
the chained Prometheus turns his head,
his only possible motion,
to watch the fires being lit in the valley
below his blood-splattered rock.
His fires glitter like earthbound stars,
vanquishing the cold and darkness,
fires lit by free people,
unchained from the captivity of the night,
people who hunt eagles
as Prometheus taught them
and roast them over his fire.
knowing that the day will come
when there will be no more eagles
to deliver the vengeance of the jealous Gods,
when the gods will be stories
told by people
around his fire.