paper hymn

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

So the bloom began to pare the ledgers into three-breath prayers, each entry a small sky pocketed moon emptied river holds a child's name until morning opens its palm origami church bows

It began with a pluck—bloom fingers slyly unpicking the hems of maps until coasts laughed loose Petals spilled like ticket stubs to concerts of weather, flaring into paper boats that hummed addresses The Monkey King winked, batting ledgers into the air; provinces tumbled like marbles, bright and bell-rung Old edicts turned into juggling songs; each unthreaded line learned to skip and call the dusk

Petals undid their quiet and learned to harmonize in winked conspiracies, sewing an off-kilter chorus through alleys and edicts Ledgers hiccupped in triplets, their ink clapping like applause while provinces folded into embarrassing little parades The Monkey King stamped a grin as if it were a metronome; his tail tapped measures and streetlamps answered with snickers Night peeled its map-skin like

Night peeled its map-skin like a tired eyelid; lamps blinked as if answering a small apology. The Monkey King's grin softened into a punctuation mark, tail low as a benediction over ruined parades. Petals folded inward, inventory of storms sighing into the ribcage of the bloom, each ledger becoming a whispered name. Streets hushed into cradles; borderlines folded like hands in sleep, and the world

and the world folded like a cradle, each city a small sigh cupped in evening's hand. His tail kept a steady meter; petals took up the theme, one voice answering another a breath behind. Alleys answered in gentle canons—streets echoing streets, names returning softened, a passage in echoes. Ledgers unspooled into harmonies, ink hush­ing into lull-notes until a single moon rocked the map to sleep.

The bloom exhaled a hymn woven from ledger-thin pages, each fold a benediction for the world. The Monkey King cupped that chorus, tail a slow comma, binding loose borders with inked tenderness. Cities and rivers sank into lullaby: streetlamps dimmed like punctuation, mountains softened into held breaths. Night closed the map as one closes a book; petals and entries slumbered together, the world cr