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This poem is the result of a cold winter and many hours spent staring at an open fire an activity humanity has shared from the dawn of time.

Children of Prometheus

4fb6320ff0e5e6ee10bd5840afdbc266by Sean Wright13 Aug 2013

I stare into the orange flame
and hear an echo of the past
of kindred folk who shared the same;
this bounty of Prometheus.

As hands held up to warming glow;
a vision clear of ochred walls
comes dancing on the chimney stone,
its ancient spell holds me in thrall.

I see their jagged shadows play,
hear their voice in hiss and crackle
a language lost to time's long swathe
before the fall of ancient Babel.

We stare into that sacred place
we children of Prometheus
our thoughts, our fears are much the same
though fifty thousand years are past
we huddle 'round the dying flame
that guards against night's cold embrace.