domestic hymn

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.

The bloom went quieter than quiet, like a candle learning to keep a secret. Its petals surrendered one small fact—homes had grown where promises were sown, not stones. The Monkey King's thumb slackened; an apology settled into his palm like a patient pulse. Night leaned in; roofs inhaled the soft syllable and held it like newly sewn cloth. The river catalogued that syllable, smoothing it into a sh

The river finished that 'sh' into a soft shore—moss stitched like breath along the bank, People woke to finding careful stitches threaded through their doorframes and window-places, The Monkey King's thumb learned a softer cartography, drawing paths that led to hearths and porches, A child looped a ribbon round a broken latch; the bloom hummed low and promises settled in small hands.

He cupped the bloom like a needle and night like cloth, drawing a single, careful seam through rents of roof and rumor, Lantern light unwound into thread; curtains bore new hems and hands learned the slow ritual of aligning an edge, The Monkey King's thumbs practiced mercy—loop, pull, tuck—until knots tightened into promises that did not slacken, A broken latch closed with a polite click; two old邻

Two old neighbors sat at the threshold, threading apologies into the dusk, A petal trembled like a tiny needle, drawing hinges back into polite alignment, Curtains learned the careful art of closing without accusation, hems catching the evening's frayed edges, Porches inclined like cupped hands—settled, sutured by patient fingers and the bloom's quiet sewing.

Morning finds the thresholds braided into steady song, an ordinary chorus of lids and kettle calls, Wooden spoons tap metronomes; ironing boards answer in long, reliable notes, Neighbors learn the measure of kindness as one learns a tune—by heart, without show, In kitchen light promises simmer into stock, in bedsheets lullabies fold into the grain, The Monkey King sets the bloom on a windowsill, a