The savage bows down to idols of wood and stone,
the civilized man to idols of
flesh and blood George Bernard Shaw
In realms of old, where tribes did roam,
The savage bows down to idols of wood and stone,
A primitive reverence, a primal tone,
For gods of earth and forest, ancient and unknown.
But in the west, where cities rise so high,
The civilized man to idols of flesh and blood does sigh,
A worship of beauty, of strength and of might,
For idols of humanity, in all their shining light.
He prays to the gods of love and desire's fire,
To Venus and Mars, and the passions that conspire,
He offers up his heart, his soul, his every prayer,
For the fleeting joys of life, and the sorrows that ensnare.
Yet, in his heart, a secret lies in store,
A knowledge of the true, the eternal, and more,
A truth that whispers low, of a love that's divine,
A love that's not of wood, or stone, or flesh, or shrine.
But still he turns to idols, to idols of might,
To gods of power and glory, in the morning light,
And though he knows the truth, he cannot turn away,
For in his heart, a savage still holds sway.
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