Elpída: The Fire-Stealer's Lament

I was told once
That hope was a thing with feathers.
So's Mine.
Great black plumes he has.
Wings that blot out the sun.
A beak curved like a sabre.
Talons meant for tearing.

My liver my heart.
My vulture an ancient raven.

You want my secrets?
Very well. Take them. They are yours.
I ask only one thing:
That you wring one spark of mercy
From god's black-iron heart.

You think I'd set you to squeeze water from a stone?
Nay.
I'd never give you so easy a task.

This poem is about: 
Me

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