deep lament

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.

The paper boats slowed; laughter thinned to a velvet hush as petals folded like sleepy eyelids The Monkey King cupped the bloom and felt it weigh with small rains that tasted of remembering Children pressed palms to the river's skin, learning to say names like soft goodbyes that did not snap Each carved letter rang once, a delicate bell then settling—no bellows, only the long gentle settling of th

the hush wrapped the houses; footsteps softened to the measure of a distant pulse Children held names like stones and learned how to let them go, syllables heavy as prayer The Monkey King set the bloom against his chest; its petals unspooled a low requiem, small and inevitable Even the river slowed, dragging its ledger like a mourner's shawl across the town's knees

The bloom folded into a long, low tide of mourning; each petal struck the river like a slow bell. The Monkey King laid down his crown and pressed the town's names into the current's patient palm. Neighbors carried carved syllables home as small, heavy hushes—less a burden than a way to bow. By morning the maps were gone; the world kept its losses soft inside the ribs, and learned to sing them mild