Who speaks from the whirling wind?
Devils of fury tearing the seams apart.
    They tell me horses are tossed, cart and all,
    high into the fountains of tumult.

Who speaks from the whirling wind?
The still voice.
    They tell me it is pianissimo soft
    and lifts babies from their prams,
    delicately delivering them
    unharmed a mile away.

Who speaks from the whirling wind?
The Almighty.
    He flung his question at the head of Job,
    "Where wast thou when I laid the foundations?"
    -- expecting the answer, Nowhere.

Job did not shout with the sons of the morning
    when creation flooded through chaos.
Job could not bind the cluster of the Pleiades,
    nor loose the bands of Orion.
Job could not put together
    the living flank of a stallion.

Neither can a whirlwind.

It was a pity that Job quashed his plea
    and retracted his controversy.
Vile, he abhorred himself and repented
    in dust and ashes.
He cursed not God, but mute,
    became example of obedience.

Men still cower before the whirling wind
    which cuts a swath of splinters
    across brown plains.
They cower now from caution, not from holy dread,
    until the twister has subsided to a sob.

Backroom boys are listening-in
    to the primal bounce of creation.
They measure the diameter of galaxies
    greater than Pleiades.
They balance soaring craft on updrawn thermals
    and mount the flying flanks of many horse-power.

Why repent when there are worlds to conquer
    of knowledge and free fall?

They said the human race was perishing
    before it had even explored its own potential.
But in the time of Titans, Prometheus came
    with fire stolen from the chariot of the sun.
He gave the glowing gift to mortals
    who learned its mystery
    to melt and to amalgamate.

Prometheus was pinned upon a precipice
    where vultures might gouge his liver.
But at the fixing of the chains he cursed
    and cursed again the jealous Zeus,
    and would not still the controversy.

    "Proud master of the thunderbolt,
    Strike! and do thy worst.
    though thou lay on me the stoutest chains
    Which bind the stars together and prevent them
    From spilling into the dark whirlpool;
    Though thou gather all the wings of night
    And shape them into monstrous bird
    To plough in my vitals;
    I will not yield thee sovranty
    Over the pains of mortal men.
        I have given them fire!

    "But before thou strike the links fast,
    I with thee will strike a bargain.
    I will tell thee of rebellious sons
    Who live in the far shadows of darkness,
    Who wait to tear thy brightness from the sky
    Till Apollo's realm become as dark
    As the chambers of hell.

   "Only let me go to roam the pastures of men
    Instead of being impaled upon this precipice.
    Let me tread the paths of sheltering trees
    Instead of withering in the noonday glare.
    Let me smell the pungent fires I have bequeathed
    Instead of this carrion stench of blood.

    "I yield thee place in the towering sky:
    Yield thou me room in the crucibles of earth."

Out of the heart of valiant protest
    Prometheus countered the thunderbolt of Zeus.
Vultures evaporated into the dark hills,
    The chains fell down and slid like an avalanche
    to the murderous clefts below.

Prometheus unbound bore the pain of release
    and carried his scars to oblivion.