lullaby 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

The compass hiccupped and burped a constellation; stars folded into paper cranes that secreted gossip. A fish-map swam up from an alley, humming the city's private weather and bartering blue for memory. Lamp-posts unbuttoned themselves and spilled trousers of light; newborn moons stitched between the cobbles. The Monkey King winked; the wild flower winked back and sprouted a small grammar of gleam

The Monkey King hummed a hush and alleys draped themselves in velvet breath; lanterns blinked like tired lids The wild flower tucked its petals and crooned, threading moonlight into downy seams and soft maps of home Compasses slowed to whisper, angling only toward thresholds where stray shoes and small hands waited Paper-crane stars folded their wings and settled; the city's noise unlearned itself

Streets exhaled like old clocks; their teeth unlatched, and shutters folded into soft hands. The flower hummed small as a coin, and lost shoes drifted home, guided by thumbprint lullabies. Lanterns bent low to whisper names into benches; even the cobbles learned to breathe in time. The Monkey King braided the quiet into a sling and slung it over the city like a kept promise.

He hums the tiny loop until the whole city answers, echoes folding themselves into a softer hour Benches repeat their carved names in careful rounds; windows breathe the melody back like pillows Lanterns mark the tempo with blinks, notes bending map-edges so streets remember less and dream more The flower learns the round and sings it petal by petal, and compasses, soothed, tilt toward home

Tiny throats inside lamp-lungs learn the same cadence and begin to hum, Benches answer back with hollow vowels, carving lullabies into their carved names, Paper cranes clap wing-beats like hands counting prayers, folding the notes into pockets, The wild flower arranges its petals into syllables and tosses them like dandelion bells, Compasses spin politely, not to point but to orbit the melody,each

At every shutter the same small cycle plays, a cradle-hum that tucks the alleys into sleep. Compasses stop pointing and instead swing soft as pendulums, keeping time with that repeating cradle-hum. The flower closes its petals into a single hush, a seed of song that will sprout in morning maps. The Monkey King's fingers loosen; the city, stitched by that steady sleep-song, rests whole and crowned