The poet's pen hovered above the page as he wrote, recording what his [Divine Vision] revealed.
"A puddle of water,
A lake of water,
To those wandering souls,
This water did not exist.
But to me,
This water
Is as meaningful as the
White sun—
A lovely light."
— The Poet
As the poet withdrew his [Divine Vision], he gazed toward the empty horizon. As always, there was nothing but endless white—no color, no shape, no sound.
Yet even without his heavenly sight, the meaning behind the void remained clear to him.
This world had not always been so bare.
Once, it was alive with color, sound, scent, and touch.
But one day, a celestial being, broken by loss, unleashed chaos upon the world—
Wiping it clean, as if it had been nothing but a fragile dream.
This celestial did not act in cruelty, but in unbearable grief.
To atone, it bestowed upon humanity a sacred burden—the skill known as [Divine Vision].
Those who received it were blessed and cursed,
Charged with the solemn duty to reveal what was lost,
To see the beauty buried beneath the emptiness,
And to carry the memory of a world forgotten.