processional 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

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

Ribbons rose into banners; a thousand misfit floats unreeled into a raucous march Lamp-post shirts vaulted into capes; paper cranes piped brass and newborn moons clanged tin tambourines Mayors clambered onto paper-boat platforms and belted verdicts that frayed into ribbons of applause The Monkey King grinned; the wild flower twirled at the prow and the whole city unwound into gleeful uproar

Monkey King thumped his chest in a two-beat rattle; the streets answered—snap-snap, a chorus of paper wings, The flower spit tiny refrains—trill-trill, loop-loop—that children learned by rote and bakers whistled into dough, Clocks clapped their hands; vendors chanted inventory like mantras, turning prices into nonsense rhymes and bargains into jingles, Soon the city marched in meter, a giggling, h

ush slid between the syllables; laughter thinned into a single, careful exhale Paper wings folded like lids; alleys bowed and kept their small, salvaged names The Monkey King laid his grin in his palm; his two-beat thump softened to the hush of a distant bell The wild flower closed a petal over a memory shaped like a child's hand, and the city listened

They folded the city's laughter into small white envelopes, tucking names like candles between corners, Market songs unraveled into paper flags that drifted slow as shrouds above each doorway, The Monkey King unstrung his grin and stitched a seam of silence; petals fell like thin, written obits, Rivers ferried those folded remembrances—newspaper boats and scrap chapels—while the flower wept soft,

They stepped like bellows, a slow refrain stitched under the ribs of the quay—feet in step, mouths shaping one long, steady vow, Envelopes unfolded into lanterns; folded names caught flame and the river learned to ferry lit syllables toward the mouth of night, The Monkey King set his grin afloat, paddled once with a thumb of moon, while the wild flower, emptied of private sorrow, breathed a final,