surreal drift

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—

The flower cracked like lacquer and a fleet of small doors sailed free, each a neighborhood unmooring itself into possibility Furrows loosened into linen lungs that breathed out markets and swans; clay chimneys grew legs and paced toward the river's first name The Monkey King's grin unraveled into paper cranes that flapped whole houses into the sky, stitching roofs into constellations of sale and祈

He crooned the petals into a round-song, tucking eaves and shutters into murmured seams, Paper cranes folded softer, trading flight for the slow rocking of an old mother's breath, Market cries melted into hums; lamps learned the lull of two patient notes repeated, And the bloom kept sewing that small circle through alleys — hush now, sleep the city whole.

Petals lean into a low choir, folding streetlamp vowels into a single slow breath, Shutters answer with soft consonants; windows blink like sleeping syllables one by one, The river hushes its gossip, oars nestle and market scales tip their silver dreams home, Beneath that gentle unison, memory thins to a pulse at the wrist and the whole city exhales into cradle-night.

The Monkey King tilts the bloom and breathes a looping mother's note, It curls through alleys, a soft question coming back like a small boat, Streetlamps blink in reply, filaments counting heartbeats into sleep, Hinge-sighs answer in two tones; shutters hum the refrain they keep, Cradles fold into the phrase; tenement walls learn its tender curve, Names become beads strung along the tune, passed,返

First light fingers the bloom like a seampicker; stitches give way one by one, Paper cranes fold their wings down into umbrellas; shutters unlatch and small doors blink awake, Names thicken into syllables that can be traded; the river coughs up ledgers of fish and errands, The Monkey King watches the soft undoing—his lullaby becomes a timetable, the flower sliding a bright thread free.

He releases the last petal; streets unlash and ease into slow boats, rooftops slipping like thoughts into a hush of otherworldly tide, Markets become schools of ledger-fish, names bob like lanterns, chimneys unroll smoke that stitches private constellations, The bloom unthreads into a small map folded in a child's palm — an impossible geography humming the old lullaby as a new guide, The Monkey K­