In the beginning, the land was ash.
The people lived in black and white,
their days measured in dust and labour,
their nights lit only by the dim lantern of habit.
They did not know they were blind.
Then came the Whirlwind.
Some said it was wrath, some said madness.
But to the one who was chosen,
it was a hand, lifting her from the plain into the sky.
She awoke in a world of Colour —
emerald rivers, sapphire skies, gold-bricked roads.
The air hummed with hidden names.
Every creature, every stone, spoke in light.
She was given companions:
A Mind seeking truth.
A Heart longing to flow again.
A Will waiting to roar.
And the faithful Animal,
who sees beyond every veil.
She faced the Two Shadows —
one from the East, one from the West —
and learned that the enemy is not slain but dissolved,
its darkness turned to clear water.
At last, she reached the Temple of Green,
where the Throne was empty,
and the voice of the “Great and Powerful”
was only a man behind a curtain.
And the Voice whispered: The gift was on your feet the whole time.
She clicked the shoes,
and the mountain blazed white,
and her face shone as the sun.
Like Moses, she veiled her brightness,
for the people in ash could not yet bear the colours.
Like Christ, she came down from the height
to walk the dusty streets again.
She did not curse the grey world.
She carried the spectrum in her bones,
each step a secret sunrise,
each breath a covenant:
When the time is right,
I will open the curtain for them too.