mischief of rumors

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

They crossed lintels like prayers; each doorway counted as a small salvation, Compass-flowers at their collars hummed the language of pilgrimage, alleys leaning in for benediction, Homes unhooked their private hesitations and lifted them like lanterns, marching toward lighter rooms, The Monkey King set the bloom upon the final sill; the city inhaled, became a corridor for returning

A thin mourning threaded out of the bloom and into ink; paper veins began their low, unsettled singing Streets sighed, unbinding collars of distance, whispering the names of those who had walked away Thresholds softened like old knots; doors opened as if remembering to forgive, and shoes found which feet to follow The Monkey King watched the chorus swell, smiling a salt-smile while the city, towed

The Monkey King watched the chorus swell, smiling a salt-smile while the city, towed into a new rhythm, coughed up small secrets. Whispers unbuttoned like sleeves and hopped into the gutters, sprouting knees that tickled lamp-posts until they laughed blue. A rumor slipped into a baker's oven and rose, warm and insistent, coaching croissants to sing the name of an old lover. Newsboots ran barefoot