lullaby dirge

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

The midway inhaled as if the altars themselves had taught it to be quiet; cymbals paused mid-grin, stalls cupped their mouths Children folded into small saints, their laughter braided into rosary-rhymes and set like pennies on the sill Incense rose to keep count — each curl a ledger of vows, each ember a little yes returned into the palms of beggars Beneath that held breath the Monkey King's bloom

The bloom hiccuped; petals unclasped and the town spilled out like lacquer, streets sliding into sky-rivers Market stalls ran as bright soup; coins bobbed like minnows and receipts, crumpled whales, flapped toward the moon Lantern-light pooled into oil; prayers dissolved there and little boats of history drifted with smoke for oars Children scooped syllables with both hands; the Monkey King kept a

the Monkey King kept a ledger of goodbyes, pressing each name like a petal into dusk Children let their laughter fall like copper into its pages; the sound softened into count and care Lanterns inhaled until their flames were votives, tiny and attentive as heads bowed in an aisle The midway folded quiet around the bloom; the fair learned to speak in low, respectful pauses

He closed the ledger; names lay like moth-wings between covers, growing quiet as old ink. The midway crooned itself down — a cradle-chant braided with mourning, rocking alleys into the river's sleep. Petals folded their maps inward; lanterns inhaled and let their lights go, each ash a tiny compass home. Beneath the moon's benediction the bloom and town folded flat into a single hush, and the Monkе