lullaby cartography

A wild flower flickered in the Monkey King's palm—small as proof, loud as a crown He taught it tricks of wind and riddle-speech, to cart the dusk and tumble kingdoms down Its petals rewrote maps: veins as poems, each fold a compass that makes old borders frown So from that stubborn bloom a new legend grew, stitching history to song and earning its own renown

It snipped the red seam of the city—streets unstitched into ribbons that chased their owners' shoes A compass sprouted ears and winked; it pointed where regrets hid and led them into tickled alleys Officials found their laws folded into paper boats, floating upriver toward rumor and laughter The Monkey King clapped; the flower somersaulted through cartographers' pockets, turning order into game

The compass hiccupped and burped a constellation; stars folded into paper cranes that secreted gossip. A fish-map swam up from an alley, humming the city's private weather and bartering blue for memory. Lamp-posts unbuttoned themselves and spilled trousers of light; newborn moons stitched between the cobbles. The Monkey King winked; the wild flower winked back and sprouted a small grammar of gleam

The Monkey King hummed a hush and alleys draped themselves in velvet breath; lanterns blinked like tired lids The wild flower tucked its petals and crooned, threading moonlight into downy seams and soft maps of home Compasses slowed to whisper, angling only toward thresholds where stray shoes and small hands waited Paper-crane stars folded their wings and settled; the city's noise unlearned itself

He cupped the compass; avenues exhaled and blurred into handwriting—a geography of hush Lantern-signs hummed lullabies as lanes rewrote themselves in slanted, private sonnets Needles drifted like small boats, steering toward attic-wishes, lost keys, the seam where apologies sleep The wild flower offered a sleepy stanza; paper charts unlatched and pointed paths homeward

The Monkey King's palm becomes a map-singer; routes breathe in minor keys, ink curling into naps Alleys sketch themselves into sleepy arcs, labels like "kitchen", "attic", and small sorrows softened by hum Compasses tick in cradle-time, needles rocking toward windows where mittened hands fold into quilts Paper-crane stars unfold into sheet-maps, their creases promising doorways that open into warm