elegiac lullaby

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

The lantern-flower shuddered; one petal peeled like a banner and climbed into the cool sky, It unrolled scripts of command—light calligraphy that stirred broom and plow to stand as if saluting, Petals slipped free across rooftops, their serried edges humming like a chorus of small flags demanding names aloud, Children answered on rafters, stepping out with laughter turned into an instrument of old

The chanting petals folded like tired hands; their bright petitions turned to a single low hum, Names eased into the river's palm and slept as stones that no longer wanted to be recalled aloud, Children let their laughter hollow into a cradle-breath while the Monkey King pressed the bloom to his heart, Night rocked the hamlet with one small mournful tune until every doorway held its quiet, and the