irreverent parade

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—

He pressed a petal to granite; its filigree learned the patience of chisels, Syllables sank like pebbles into the ledgers of rock, rain polishing each name into claim, Hamlets gathered around carved lines, reading the bloom's verdict as both law and altar, Where petals became inscription, the river taught itself to spell them with its current.

He pressed a petal to the lintel; its script slipped down like a held breath and shut its mouth, Villages learned to count by that quiet, marking years in a single, careful exhalation, Promises cooled to a stone's patience, edges softened by the slow grammar of moss and rain, Centuries moved like reverent callers, touching each carved name and leaving it to sleep deep in the hill.

From the lintel's carved throat a low liturgy uncurled, letters tolling like patient bells, Villagers leaned their palms into mortar and learned the congregation's cadence—names folding into refrain, The King's fingers traced each cut vowel, coaxing the script to inhale and exhale a solemn breath, Night answered in deep resonance: river and rook repeating the carved benediction until dawn softened

The King's tap made vowels tumble like coins; the benediction hiccuped into a wink, Petals spat half-words that bolted sideways, leaving stitched names to improvise their steps, Villagers with palms in mortar felt a sly pulse—liturgy shedding its solemn coat to grin, The river learned the jester's tune and spat a nickname downstream, letting it ride like gossip.

The bloom snapped a sly chorus; petals clacked like spoons on the temple rim, Villagers answered in call-and-response, stamping riddles until straight names curdled into nicknames, Granite mouths coughed up grins; a carved syllable slipped off its ledge and danced away, The river picked up the refrain and looped it like a wheeze, ferrying laughter past every quay.

The village rose in a brazen procession, petals in their hair and mortar-bruised palms to the sky, Carved names slid from lintels to caper in the street, nicknames spilling like coins into the river's laugh, Granite softened its sermon into a grin; the King's fingers unclenched and the bloom bounded ahead, So memory romped from its pedestal, wrapped in mischief and song, and was ferried home by a欢