It takes sacrifice to begin anew. Parchment makes His presence real as blood blesses the pew. To begin the first hunt is to name a first child. To have them know nothing of starvation and barren fields. Limbs pull from green and blood soaks our clothes. A new god demands penance in the mud. Adam meets Eve of the forest while songs of prayer reach bleated chorus. Blasphemy borne of the bark. Writhe against the roots. We are tied to the land as roots to the dirt. A life made real by the nature of bliss while we breathe in fits of sweat and moss. Tell us not of previous loss. Tell us not of this albatross. Blessed be these smells of sweat and moss.
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