Raise up the object of your adoration t'wards the sky. Make it known by procession. If it worthy, would be unnecessary.
Your God, an object. Flesh. Animal. Bone, meat, tooth, and hair.
You worship a thing.
We worship action.
Piglets suckling at a dead sow. Little nourishment is gleaned. Your teeth will fall out before they grow sharp.
Our canoes-daggers penetrating your shore.
We are the animals.
We take home trinkets. Nothing more than decorations in the halls of eternity.
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