A sculpture by Nicolas-Sébastien Adam of Prometheus giving fire to man.

Sitting in the cold of somebody else’s flame,

Amorous touch—but nobody knew his name.

Lonely revelry, molding elegies

From clay.


Sipping the endless reserve of mystical shame,

He sat back from the table observing the game:

Enemies, indulgency; entertaining disastrously 

Day after day.


And the ones on the ground didn’t know what the clouds contained,

And the ones on the summit didn’t conquer to meet the rain;

They were their own hope,

Playing each other to cope,

Saving the words of the worst ones to unload.

Turns out, the ground and the summit were one and the same.


With heat, he comes.

Repletes men-come-undone,

But nobody knew the world was the warmer.


He beats the un-

discovered sun drum

Into existence. Never before did we see each other,


It was he who made it so,

And from him to us, oh, it was Prometheus.


It took a mad match to make a mad spark,

Managed to clad the sky in black-bluish dark… 

Oh no— he can’t breathe.

No-show testimonies

From the hierarch.


Sitting in the cold of his very own flame.

Murderous touch, nobody knew his name—

Revelry to tragedy. Frantically writing elegies,

Who is to blame?


by Elyza Tuan ’23 Co-Assistant Editor-in-Chief