reverent lull

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

skirting the furrow, they taught it jokes that hopped like skipping stones, petals snapped back riddles in staccato, ricocheting answers that tugged at the mayor's hat, names returned doubled and crooked, giggling themselves into new doorways while dogs chased stray syllables, the King laughed; the bloom let loose a laughing river, maps folding into paper boats and the town set sail on its grin.

Petals pinged like pocket-pennies, syllables ricocheting down cobbles in bright, skipping arcs A baker found home cradled in his tray; each step sent it clinking into a chorus of rolling buns Children flung loose vowels like marbles, watching them bounce from doorstep to kettle to bell The Monkey King lunged for a leaping consonant, laughing as it cartwheeled into his hat and rang a new tune

The laughter stilled at the edges as if someone drew a cupped hand around sound, Petals slowed their skipping; each bounce became measured, like a clock remembering sorrow, The King's grin softened into a thin coin of moon, he listened for names that had gone quiet, From the bloom rose a low ledger-tone—no longer giggling but counting absences in silver threads, Villagers paused with flour-dusted

Villagers paused with flour-dusted hands, curling the hush into bowls of prayer, They taught the bloom a softer cadence, a cradle-tune that counted missing ones like lullabies, One by one the syllables returned, warm as oven-breath, fitting into hinges and thresholds, The Monkey King closed his fist around the quiet flower; the ledger sighed and the town slept whole.