ceremonial refrain

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.

A foot fell and the crowd answered, a metronome of palms and soft shoes, They counted syllables like coins — even breaths becoming measures to shepherd loss, The flower unfurled in slow intervals, each petal a drumskin struck by time's thumb, Paper boats kept cadence on the river; laws hummed back into place, word by patient word.

Counting thinned to a single moth of sound; breaths pooled like coins at the river's lip, The flower bowed its little crown, petals drawing the world inward to guard a secret of sorrow, Paper boats unspooled more slowly, their soft collisions like thumbs on a rosary of years, The Monkey King held the bloom like a small lamp, learning to measure love by the quiet it casts.

The city folded its voice into a shawl; footsteps softened like coins sunk into velvet, The Monkey King pressed the bloom to his ribs; its petals exhaled light like a tiny bell, Paper boats were hollowed into lanterns, each name threaded with one careful breath and launched, Children hummed a single slow interval that smoothed the river's scars and taught the night to keep.

Night folded its palm across the alleys; lamps breathed like people who have learned to wait. He pressed the bloom close; each petal unspooled a name, soft as a bell at the edge of sleep. Paper boats became single-voice lanterns, ferrying one remembered syllable under the river's hush. Children stepped slow as if in a chapel, counting names into the dark and sewing absence with measures.

They learned the bloom's small liturgy—hands beating a steady echo, the town answering each old bell, The Monkey King breathed the pattern into the river; children returned it, coin by coin, measure into measure, Lantern-names slipped skin-deep into the current while the city watched them stitch the morning's seam, At last the crown lay empty on the stone, and everyone carried one hushed syllable,