fire-whirler, gallabalba; light-force, iaiaō; fire-eddy, pyrichi boosēia; light-mover, sancherōb; thunderbolt-driver, iē ōē iōēiō; glory of light, beegénēte; increaser of light, sousinephien; pyrischēsiphōs sousinephi arenbarazei marmarenteu, star-tamer: open to me, proprophengē emetheire moriomotyrēphilba!'

The wave of titles breaks on a single request: ánoixón moi, “open to me.” Everything before it — the fire-whirler, the thunderbolt-driver, the star-tamer — has been earning the right to say those two words to the being who bolted the universe shut. The whole litany is a key cut to fit one lock: the fiery doors of the previous passage. What the accumulation finally paints is a storm-and-light deity who is also the master of the sky's machinery: he whirls fire, drives the thunderbolt (keraunóklone), tames the stars (astrodáma) — the very stars that just swarmed from the disk. He is the cosmos's engineer and its weather at once. And the names never stop braiding through: even at the moment of the plea, “open to me” is sealed with three more sounds, proprophengē emetheire moriomotyrēphilba — as if the request itself had to be spoken half in the language men use and half in the language that moves gods.