mournful chant

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.

A petal tapped the river and the surface forgot itself, breaking into bell-tones that pulled at shoelaces. Alleys braided into crowds; curbs lifted like steps and the pavement became a drum-room for laughing feet. Paper ordinances spun into whistles; magistrates sold stern looks for ribbons and found their pockets full of tune. The Monkey King let the grin bloom wider; the city convulsed into a rō

The Monkey King's grin unstitched the hard seams and set a slow needle humming through the square. Petals threaded into a seamstress' hand; maps were rewoven into shawls, draping scarred corners warm. Magistrates softened edicts into patches, tucking apologies into hems so statutes might flex and forgive. Children hemmed the riverbank with ribbon and laughter; the city learned to fold its wounds,m

Dawn arrived like an old apology, thin and patient, laying a ledger of pale ink over cobbles. Each petal turned inward and whispered names into the seam of the city, a slow litany of small disappearances. The Monkey King let his grin slack into a single, reverent pause, fingers tracing the bloom as if counting graves by heart. People moved with the careful hush of a church service, their laughter—

their laughter folded into one low refrain, a long slow litany that held each lost name, the city answered in measured breath, tracing the river's hem with soft, repetitive syllables, the Monkey King lowered his hand; the flower drew shut, petals sealing the atlas of sorrow, paper boats took the last verses downstream, and the square kept the echo like a small, solemn lamp.