Not of gospel, gold or greed. But sand, sun and stardust.
They’d gather where the tide pools teach the patient art of adaptation, where tide and time have carved cathedrals from nothing but persistence.
They’d bow before the ancient light that traveled billions of years to reach their upturned faces, carrying stories of worlds that died before Earth dreamed.
Their hymns would be the hum of atoms, the secrets that electrons share as they leap between their shells.
They’d celebrate the sacred chemistry that turns sunlight into sugar, sugar into thought, thought into love.
We are the universe learning to marvel at itself.
And in their reverence for what is, rather than what might be, they’d find infinity in the endless depth of now.
