Myths show us how the world works. We may taste some bitterness here and there, as we learn them. Perhaps we have read them, or some teacher or a wiser friend has told us about them. Ah, we'd like myths actually provided genuine answers, but they are mere echoes of our human reasoning.

Take this, for example, why do have to die? More, if people die anyway at some point, why should we not find the secret of life, so we can defeat death? Something similar was on the mind of the young doctor, Victor Frankenstein.

Ah, God made sure men would never eat from the Tree of Life. They had been bold enough to eat from the Tree of Knowledge; next step would never be taken, as God Himself banned the first couple from the Garden. Like eternally disobedient, spoiled children, they were grounded without enough explanations and they remained mad forever.

And that madness took the form of furious colors and impetuous writings. Titans tricked the gods, rabbis essayed dangerous conjures and young doctors created life out of death and deep yearning.

                       Prometheus, son of Lapetus, son of Uranos

                       on this ancient Greek page,

                       and on a Jewish page, Judah Loew ben Bezalel,

                       the rabbi who fathered a golem,

                       a man of clay, like the children crafted by the Titan,

                       son of Titans, the fire-giver, the trickster,

                       Victor Frankenstein on an English page,

                       in the dreams—or in the torments—

                       of Mary, the young lady

                       who won a bet against older and wiser men,

                       well that Prometheus, capitalized,

                       at some point BECAME a prometheus,

                                                                          the echo of an existence
                                                                          which needs to play God.