city awakening

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

bridge between sleep and speech; doors answer with pans and small, deliberate steps, streets unlace their blankets—stalls call their names back into the wind, carts gossip in the gutters, children pronounce each rescued syllable as if tasting bread and claim the lanes as kin, He tucks the spent blossom to his chest and goes; the town lifts its lids and moves, carrying its names like warm bread.