feast of maps

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.

Dawn leans from alleyways; a widow hums and tucks a grin into her sleeve A stall's lantern tips awake and a child trades a coin for a hidden seedling The river coughs up a page, a green sprout hooked in its fold like a promise The Monkey King slackens his hold; the bloom spills a hush that smells of spring Officials find routes braided toward porches, kitchens, small hands learning to mend Lighter

Kitchens unbolt like small chapels; palms press dough into benedictions, salt balanced on a thumb like a promise The flower perches on the sill as if votive, shedding a petal into broth that teaches spoons their old compass Paper boats, rescued from gutters, refold into recipe-scripts—measurements and margins turning law into simmering instruction The Monkey King cups steam and learns the stove's,

language—how to braise a street into supper and fold a compass into dumplings, seasoning paper until it yields. Neighbors come with pockets of borders and lay out cartography like linen, ripping directions into shared courses. Petals ladle steam into bowls; paper boats become plates, laws simmered down to something warm and ordinary. The Monkey King sets the bloom by the hearth; the city eats its책