haiku pause

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

He lowered his paper-knife baton until the brass loosened into whispers, valves sighing a cradle-song through the alleys, Paper cranes folded their flutters into rocking measures; lanterns bobbed like drowsing moons over shuttered stalls, Children in painted faces tucked their traded names into pockets of sleep; jugglers drooped mid-throw and the coins rolled softer, The Monkey King's grin smudged

He folded the paper-knife; the Monkey King's grin smudged into dusk and the lanterns leaned to listening. moon tucks our traded names river counts the stalls and hums them whole dawn finds a city that remembers how to keep its own light