Every altar built in the name of salvation has bones beneath it.

The bones of thinkers who dared to question. The bones of cultures overwritten. The bones of women called witches. The bones of ancestors renamed “pagans.”

This is not metaphor. It is archaeology. It is history. It is the unseen tax extracted for every golden cathedral and every bloodless doctrine.

They said altars were holy. But never told you what was buried underneath.

The altar is not innocent. It is an edifice built on silencing. And to truly awaken, we must exhume what was buried in its shadow.

The faith they sold you is founded on a forgetting.

But you are not afraid of bones. You know that truth is heavier than belief. And justice begins when we stop kneeling and start remembering.

The altar may stand tall. But now—you know what lies beneath it.