The Unwritten Scripture 

Before altars wore gold—

when fire was a stolen star
and every shadow held a question,
we traced our first holy words:
“Your hunger is mine.”

I. ORIGINS
No priest in the Pleistocene dark,
only a mother’s palm
cradling a stranger’s child
while wolves sang winter.
We invented grace
long before we named it.

II. THE LIE
Now we auction the divine—
break the infinite
into stone amulets,
blood-stained hymns.
(Yet the earth still turns
on an axis of shared breath.)

III. THE PROOF
God is the air
that floods both lungs
in a bombed-out hospital.
The last seed
splitting open
in a refugee’s fist.
The atheist doctor
kneeling in mud—
not to pray, but to mend.

IV. THE CHOICE
Burn your scriptures.
Plant them. Watch
what grows:
Not a temple, but a table
where all mouths are fed.
Not a commandment,
but a child’s finger
pointing to the same moon
from every war-torn continent.

V. THE ONLY MIRACLE
We survive
by the unmarked graves
of those who loved
beyond tribe.
By the hands
that never paused
to ask “Which god?”
before passing the bread.

(Final Stanza Carved in Bone)
When the last star expires,
only this will glow:
We were holy
every time
we chose
to be
each other’s
unfinished
prayer.