brass procession

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 tuned his grin to cymbals; paper cranes beat heartbeats into the night and lanterns learned benediction steps Stalls yawned open as altars: a wheel of petitions, a tarot-tea spin, jugglers whispering prayers between each toss Children in painted faces traded fortunes like pennies, their laughter braided into the liturgy of the midway Priests in sequined sleeves burned confetti incense; the fair

They came in a train of painted faces, footsteps like drum skins across the fair. Each mask a small theater: grins that sold apologies, sorrow that made coins bloom. Children traded their untrimmed names for caps of lacquered calm; elders wore moon-sour smiles. The Monkey King plaited a crown of visages, each fold humming a different rumor of home. When a mask tilted, a street rewrote itself:shutt

Gilded trumpets unlatched the dusk, valves flaring like laughter — a blast bent alleys into ribbons of light, Masks pressed their faces into bells; smiles swelled into bell-mouths that exhaled each street's christened name, Kettledrums tethered stray lanes into a procession; cobbles stamped, shutters saluted, marketplaces clicked to tempo, The Monkey King cut the air with a paper-knife baton; roO

A battery of drums creased the lanes into a column; cobbles clicked salute like polished coins, The Monkey King tapped his paper-knife and cranes unfurled into standards, wings stiff as banners, Lanterns swung in military arcs, spilling halos that spelled the names of every small victory, Petals shed pennants and brass — the bloom poured out a procession; even masks stepped taller with pride.

A column of gilded horns unrolled the night—polished valves and bell-mouths spelling each street's benediction, alleys cupping the sound like hands. Masks eased off as if waking; freckles, chipped teeth, honest scars returned, and children ran home trailing their true names like paper kites. Paper cranes unraveled into small birds; roofs folded down from constellations into chimneys that learned,,