spindle 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

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.

A petal unbuttoned like a pocket into another city, where afternoon walked upside down, Small moons hawked time in paper cups and teaspoons traded the names of lonely shutters, Lanterns grew legs and spilled their light into coat-pockets; bridges hummed with combed glass, The Monkey King grinned and folded constellations like maps, tucking rooftops into the bloom.

He turned a petal like a page and spoke the names low, each one a small undoing The city bent inward — shutters feathered shut, dogs folded their bodies into the earth Lanterns kept the beat of something like mourning; even the moon swallowed its loudness The bloom held the last syllables like prayers, and the river carried them away like softened coins

A petal unfurled and the street decanted itself into a slow, humming fish; lampposts slid like fins, Windowpanes became small mirrors that swallowed sidewalks and spat out sentences of bread and pins, The river reversed its patience and climbed the hill, carrying chairs that folded into lullabies and teaspoons, The Monkey King clapped once and a name grew fins, swimming through the market, knot-ty

The fish-name shuddered, a brass cog blinking where its eyeball should be, Petals folded like pinions, each syllable winding tight as a spring beneath the quay, Lanterns oscillated with polite mischief, chiming wrong afternoons into noon, The Monkey King's thumb nudged a moon-tooth and the gutters learned to tick in tune.

He eased the bloom into its slow orbit; petals unwound like a spindle humming low, Names threaded into that turning—villages, bridges, the small rooms that kept our papers—each found its seam, The brass-eyed fish settled: a bell that ticked the market to sleep, its cog-heart softened to lull, The Monkey King closed his hand; the lantern in his palm cooled, history sewn to cloth, the night finally,