solemn 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

smoothing it into a shiver of sound that coaxed the reeds into speech, each syllable swung like a small bell and windows unlatched to answer, roofs folded their lids away; alleys rose, a long throat exhaling names, the bloom split its breath into many little choirs and the town learned how to wake

Dawn fingers the alleys; stalls yawn open and wares breathe into speech, Petals in his palm teach prices as litany—spices counted in soft syllables, baskets reciting weight, The Monkey King's thumb runs the beat; bakers intone neighborhoods, fishwives answer in salt-sweet refrains, Bargaining bends into blessing; each exchanged name sparks a little lamp that steadies the slow street.

Feet fall like cupped bells; the street coils into a single long step, merchants forming a slow file, The Monkey King leads, thumb tapping the bloom's pulse as if counting each name to be offered, Lanterns bob in measured time; each syllable becomes a coin placed upon the town's long palm, Children walk behind, mouths rehearsing ancestral lists until the whole market hums one steady, holy chant.

The market folds into one slow breath, voices braided into a reverent chord Names pile like prayer-pebbles in palms; each exchange rings like a temple bell His thumb eases; the bloom closes, humming a litany that steadies roofs and remembers wells Night keeps the melody; the town sleeps under that careful, sacred refrain — whole, held, and named