quiet cradle

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

After the game, the city inhaled carefully; laughter folded into a single small sigh. The flower furled a petal like a hand over a name, petals whispering old calendars shut. The Monkey King let his applause hang heavy then slip away, placing the bloom on cracked stone in reverence. People moved like soft liturgies past, leaving paper boats of yesterday that the river accepted without sound.

Streetlamps bowed and learned to whisper, laying a velvet hush along cracked cobbles. A petal drifted into a child's palm; the child cupped it like a secret and practiced quieting the ache. The Monkey King let his grin shrink to a moth's wing, keeping his hands empty so sorrow could be held. Paper boats returned at dusk, muffled benedictions afloat, carrying names made small enough to be borne.

The river opened like a chapel and hummed the names, low ribbons of voice steering toward midnight. Streetlamps leaned in, their filaments knitting harmonies, answering in brass breaths and silken hush. A petal in the child's palm thrummed as if a throat had learned a new vowel; the Monkey King beat a slow, reverent time. Paper boats turned into verses, oars sounding like vowels, wakes composing a

wakes composing a single thin vowel the river keeps like a sealed invitation. The child loosens their hold; the petal slides away—an island of hush toward the mouth of night. The Monkey King shrugs into silhouette, his grin reduced to a polite echo, giving the city room to close. Streetlamps fold their hands; each a small, watchful candle as the whole place leans into a courteous, final silence.

The river rocks the city like a mother's lap, syllables folded into woolen vowels. Petals tuck themselves beneath the child's chin, each a small, patient pulse of warmth. The Monkey King slows his grin to the soft tick of a bedside clock, hands uncurling into lull. Streetlamps dim their brass throats to a slow hum, spinning light into the hush of breaths. Paper boats bob like tiny hearts learning,

Paper boats bob like tiny hearts learning, at last, the slow rhythm of being held. The petals curl and seal, a small coronation of hush that turns day into a lullaby. The Monkey King steps back into shadow, his grin folded into the seam of night as the city rocks itself into a muted cradle. Names the river carries settle into sleep beneath skin-deep currents; morning, if it comes, will be a gentle