Bogomil Gjuzel
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Bogomil Gjuzel 251  Bogomil Gjuzel (b. 1939) How the Eagle Sees It For me, the Caucasus is just a prison, too. Though I’m unbound. No rock, after all’s said and done, holds him. I tear at his liver every day. By night, obviously, I’m exhausted. So then the damn thing grows back again. And he recovers. I dream of that infinite space I lived in, thermalling on unfettered air, before the gods handed me this horrid work. They themselves have no idea what it is they want. They’ll tell me: Consume his innards, make him suffer, but don’t let him croak! Taunt him every now and then just to let him know we care . . . Our languages, of course, are different—can’t understand a thing he tells me. How could I, how could anyone understand the voice of such exquisite pain, the voice inside his singing blood? They may be gods, but they’re all doomed by ignorance. While I ravage this titan, who screams and thrashes, does he know I’ll never really damage him enough? Rats gather at his feet and slaughter one another for the pickings. Mankind will bring him offerings, autumn harvests and winter grains. I, meanwhile, remain so stuffed I cannot fly. (A diet of liver, forever!) Those fools, they think Prometheus is just his liver. P. H. Liotta, 1998 ...