lament refrain

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 jester's grin receded; the river's tongue learned to swallow mirth whole, then sip light. Petals folded like letters unread, their edges curling inward to keep the names safe. Villagers let their mortar rest; palms unclenched as if releasing a prayer into soil. The King's fingers paused mid-stroke; the benediction softened into a breath that would not return. Night knitted a thin veil around a

Night knitted a thin veil around the King's pause, and the hush learned a pattern of returning sorrow, The bloom folded inward, each petal singing a small, recurring elegy that offered the names back as echoes, Villagers breathed those echoes into the river; the water learned to carry them gently, not as verdicts but as lullabies, Maps loosened into story, the King's hand eased down, and what was刻