Prometheus charged Olympus and stole the fire. He brought it to his creation, man, to help him in a cold, dark, and deadly world. When man was handed the flame, he looked upon it, beautiful and bright. It lit the world around him, and at last he could see his surroundings. There were frightening sights, of sharp rocks and strange beasts, and trees that loomed over him like monsters.
Man threw the fire into the mud. He crushed the torch with his heel.
“Why did you do that?” Prometheus asked, trying to gather the cinders from the ground.
“I don’t need it,” said man. “I have the gods to guide me, to tell me what is true and false. I trust them, for they gave me life. Your wicked fire spawned monsters that would surely devour me. Why do you hate me so? Away with you monster!”
Why does Prometheus weep? It is not because of the pain of being devoured. It is because that which he loves has hated him for his effort.