Remorseful Prometheus

Bound to this Scythian cliff, I, Prometheus, sing my own lament—an anti-epic for having loved humankind enough to hand them fire, pottery, barbecue, and eventually overpriced smart devices. The cadence opens on that C Prometheus scale—C, D, E, G♭, A, B♭—an asymmetrical spark whose first chord, I⁷♭⁵ (C7♭5), flickers like the ember I once stole. It tumbles into iVø⁷ (G♭ø⁷), the very intervallic groan of my chains settling into the rock. Then rises the stubborn II⁺7 (D⁺7), a reminder that even enchained, a Titan may still breathe defiance in augmented steps.

Yet Zeus’ humor sharpens as the harmony pivots into IV⁺7♯9 (G♭⁺7♯9)—a lightning-cracked chord if ever there was one—followed by the strangely triumphant VI⁺⁴₂ (B♭⁺M7), a color so radiant it feels like the fire humanity still refuses to thank me for. And at last the cycle ends on II⁷ (D7), the eagle’s wingbeat: predictable, punctual, unionized.

So I chant my remorse—half tragedy, half self-inflicted comedy. For if I had foreseen that gifting mortals fire would lead not to glory, but to the invention of bureaucracy, I might have stolen something else entirely… perhaps silence. But alas, here comes the bird again, and he never misses a note.