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

At dusk the Monkey King cupped the bloom like lantern-light for vanished vows, Each petal exhaled a roster of ruins, names folded into the hush of boughs, It remembers our names, soft as ash, murmured into the river's slow mouth, Farms unlatched their memories; the moon stitched back the silhouettes of towns, It remembers our names, a reed-song passing under bridges and through crowns, The flower—

The flower exhaled a low, rocking hush that braided night into a mother's coil, Petals unspooled lull and ledger both, naming hearths until the smoke forgot its hurry, Lanterns bobbed like slow-heart answers; each name folded into the palm of sleep, The Monkey King's thumb kept the beat, patient as moon-breath, coaxing cities soft and small.

He rocks the blossom in his palms, each sway a slow, deliberate ache, Petals fold like sleepy lips, taught to sing the names of vanished rooms, Lantern-streets inhale; shutters answer with the hush of hands that used to hold, Night bends into a gentle mourning, rocking the map until its edges fold.

He counts them again—It remembers our names, each syllable struck like a small bell, Petals answer in a hush that turns mourning into a slow, repeated hymn, Lantern-voices swell and fall, houses breathing the ledger back into the dark, The bloom keeps naming; in that persistent naming the lost are held and made holy.

The blossom snaps; names fly out like flares—clean, metallic, cutting the night's woolen hush. Petals strike the air and every syllable rings brief, incandescent, as if truth were a struck wire. Moonlight sharpens into letters; alleys ignite under the crisp punctuation of reclaimed speech. A final voice lands bright and small, a decisive spark that gilds the ruins with sudden grace.

The silver sparks fold into slow warmth; roofs drink the heat like old pots finally remembering stew, Petals cool to ember-blue in his palms, as if the night's sharpness could be softened into a palm's press, Names settle into porches and throats—spoken small, tasted like bread—and people press their hands to find them, He lets the blossom dim to a steady breath; the light lingers on thresholds, a

a mother's echo threaded through each doorway, steady as breath, a tiny, repeating hush that rocks roofs into the shape of sleep, he closes his palms; the bloom's last pulse loops into a small, tender song, and dawn learns it by heart—every lost name returned, cradled, and complete.