elegiac hush

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

At dusk the Monkey King cupped the bloom like lantern-light for vanished vows, Each petal exhaled a roster of ruins, names folded into the hush of boughs, It remembers our names, soft as ash, murmured into the river's slow mouth, Farms unlatched their memories; the moon stitched back the silhouettes of towns, It remembers our names, a reed-song passing under bridges and through crowns, The flower—

The flower exhaled a low, rocking hush that braided night into a mother's coil, Petals unspooled lull and ledger both, naming hearths until the smoke forgot its hurry, Lanterns bobbed like slow-heart answers; each name folded into the palm of sleep, The Monkey King's thumb kept the beat, patient as moon-breath, coaxing cities soft and small.

He rocks the blossom in his palms, each sway a slow, deliberate ache, Petals fold like sleepy lips, taught to sing the names of vanished rooms, Lantern-streets inhale; shutters answer with the hush of hands that used to hold, Night bends into a gentle mourning, rocking the map until its edges fold.

Petals became small moons and slipped between the King's fingers like lullaby coins, A street unstitched itself and shutters took wing, reading each house as an open eye, Chairs learned to breathe and sung the rooms' names into the seams of a paper sky, Under that slow unreason the bloom arranged impossible neighborhoods and the night obeyed.

A pebble-laugh skitters down the avenue; shutters clap like surprised hands, Window-glasses wobble into giggles, lamplight hiccups into skipping stones, Pavement unfolds into hopscotch islands; doorsteps take tiny, delighted leaps, From the bloom spill paper boats of mischief, neighborhoods bobbing, bright and buoyant.

The neighborhood's hopscotch quiets; laughter folds into the King's slow palm like paper prayers Petals pulse one soft obit each, naming empty rooms with the careful weight of counting stones Lanterns lower their throats; even the pavement keeps its breath so names can pass without disturbance The bloom rocks as if tucking the night into its ribcage, each fold a small, relentless remembering