quiet dirge

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.

The bloom answered not in ink but in voices: a ripple of whistles along the ridge, harmonizing with the orchard's breaths Children learned the pattern like a prayer, stepping barefoot on echo-strings that braided light into speech Old women stitched the petals' syllables to lullabies, and with each chorus the carved names shimmered new hues Farmers hummed back the river's ledger, turning each skir

k—farmers hummed back the river's ledger, turning each skir into a low loop that tugged at the throat, petals answered in a weary echo, the same small cadence folding over itself until it wore thin, names became the measure by which the village learned to breathe; each repetition leaned toward longing, the Monkey King held his lantern-flower as it kept calling the past aloud, a soft, unending ache

They braided names into a slow ladder, each refrain another rung the hamlet climbed A palm struck the riverstone—answers folded back in metered breaths, call and echo exact The lantern-flower swelled with the cadence, its petals cracking open into oath-syllables By the tenth round old doors unhinged and ghosts took seats at tables, steady as lamps

They filed like a single organ, slow breaths identical as doors locking in cadence Lantern-flower swung at his wrist, a pale heart ticking names into the street Each syllable became a step, a pebble of sorrow rolled down the lane and kept time Under bridge-arches and porch-pillars the dead nodded, taking their slow places as if into pews

They leaned into a measured hush — a small hymn that braided names into the chest of night, Petals slackened, the bloom unthreading its syllables while the river smoothed them into stones, One by one the ghosts kissed doorframes and folded themselves back into the slow dark of home, The Monkey King set the lantern-flower on the threshold; it closed, breathed a last benediction, and the village let