menders' chorus

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.

Dawn laid out a ledger on the cobbles; doors peeled open like cupped questions, receipts folded into palms Petals unwound into thin slips—quiet confessions inked in the hush between heartbeat and hum Neighbors swapped nails, bread, a crooked kettle; apologies were counted aloud and tucked into the tallies The Monkey King's thumb tapped each paper-gram, small sums bending toward repair as the bloom

He opened the day like a book of small graves, each entry dusted in careful grief, Margins listed vanished porches, the year's rent of Sundays, the price of one last lullaby, Figures folded into elegy: columns naming what rusted away and what we kept by memory alone, The bloom's slips smelled of ash and jasmine; they recorded blessings in the same breath as loss, Neighbors pressed their palms to a

Neighbors pressed their palms to a stitched ledger, breath and paper mended into one, From porches rose a low hymn of nails and thread, spoons tapping time like patient bells, The Monkey King's thumb closed the book as if tucking a child—petals folding over pardon, Homes hummed whole again: coals, kettles, names braided into a single, stubborn safety.