soft requiem

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

The bloom began to inventory the impossible: receipts for storms, a ledger of vanished streets and small apologies It listed a moon with pockets, a compass that read which childhood you'd be tomorrow, a church spattered in origami birds Rivers were filed under "waiting," mountains cataloged by the taste of their shadows, borders stamped with lullaby signatures The Monkey King watched the list sign

The bloom tucked a giggle into the margins, folding receipts into paper frogs that hopped names like marbles, They croaked corrections—"Turn here, the horizon is on holiday"—and ribboned the borders with jaunty asides, The Monkey King snapped back, assigning mountains to improvise and rivers to practice slapstick by moonlight, Ledger and monarch became a call-and-answer: one lists the impossible,;

He plucked a canyon like a fiddle string; the air answered with a grin. The bloom folded that canyon into a paper bell and taught rain to read jokes. They tossed names back and forth—his wink exploded fireworks, its petal stitched new surnames into passports—so mountains learned to cartwheel. Borders giggled open; alleys redrew themselves, and the ledger, delighted, inked the prank into law.

He tapped the canyon's rim: a rim-shot laugh—echoes hopping like marbles in a palm, The bloom replied in staccato petals; paper frogs clapped out a skipping-rope psalm, Alleys hiccuped into tap-dance, lamplight staggered and threw its shadow off the beat, Names learned to miscount on purpose; the map shrugged and taught the city to repeat.

He let his fingers rest; the canyon's fiddle sighed like a half-remembered lullaby. The bloom unwound a single petal and sewed every stray name to a quiet seam of sky. Ink thinned to the hush of ash and prayer; the ledger catalogued mercy by weight of breath. Alleys bowed like old friends; paper frogs folded their mouths and kept a small vigil for lost stars.

He cradles the bloom against his palm; a thin song presses like a hand to a bruise. The ledger learns to hush: it marks sorrow in syllables, weighs hushes by their salt. Paper frogs fold into pockets and keep the city's small sorrows warm between their legs. Streetlamps inhale slow; their halos tilt slumped, like lids heavy with unread letters. The canyon's fiddle sinks a note low enough to bruise

He lays the bloom upon the ledger's last page; its giggle folds itself into a bell Paper frogs press small sorrows to their chests and count the city's breathing into dusk The canyon's fiddle bows once, a long hand coaxing night into the seams of alleys and pillows He closes his palm; mercy becomes a lullaby and the world, at last, makes room to sleep