lullaby refrain

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.

Gravity slackened between eaves; cobblestones rose like small moons drifting through the market's throat A sack of bargaining-sounds ballooned into paper birds that hummed invoices and dissolved into starlight Lanterns inhaled the river, exhaling constellations; alleys braided themselves into slow tides of shoeprints The bloom slipped through these loosened seams, planting improbable doorways that

that open into backrooms where origin-stitches unpick, sending emperors sneezing into noodle-steam Temples cough up halved names; the river offers three rival births and refuses any single truth Children gather stray syllables like bright shells, braid them onto kites, and launch tiny epics over the roofs The Monkey King tucks a loosened verse behind his ear and sells it—the city buys a god for a杯

Monkey King snips the night's hem; a ledger-clam snaps open, cash-voices spill out singing receipts. Teapots trade whistles for pocket-watches; noodles loop like jump-ropes through vendors' knees, time tasting of soy-sweet. Petals unzip punctuation—commas roll like marbles, question-marks lift as kites tugging at tailors' patience. The bloom giggles and knits recipe-lyrics into rumor-banners; the

He hums two patient notes and folds the market into a small, trusting sleep, Lanterns slow to that rocking rhythm; vendors' voices braid into one soft tide that tucks each bill and prayer, Petals close like fingers, names curling inward and settling warm as coins in a child's palm, The Monkey King tips his crown; the bloom becomes a quiet star, and the city holds that repeated rocking in its chest