soft lament

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 met at a doorway, fingers learning the grammar of missing years, they traded small absolutions—an apple, a stitch, a name given back to air, above them the bloom dimmed like a distant bell, counting out what it had kept, the Monkey King's hands went on, slow as midnight mending a map of ghosts, he stitched not to erase absence but to lay a cloth over it, soft and exact, each seam

Each seam took into its thread a low, steady sorrow—gentle rain learning to become shelter. The bloom's last hum unfurled into ember-kindness, hollowing grief into a warmth that would not burn. The Monkey King's palm closed slow, not to hide the ache but to keep it small, a tether for remembering with mercy. Homes wore the remembered holes like mended cloth: a carried sorrow softened into space so