I, Prometheus,
I hear your prayer,
your yearning for so much more,
and I listen.

The aching mortal strings vibrate,
much like chords of a piano,
or the ephemeral body of thunder.

I, Prometheus,
I descend from the mountain,
rise up to me, my valley,
and accept this promise.

Oh, tools and fire I bring,
but nothing made of metal-stone,
and no kindling sparked for the flames.

Do you understand my Promethean promise?
You have asked and I will deliver,
something more.