This place is not Copenhagen,
but this is Manila,
and just like London,
it deserves to hold the skies
of your ornately-colored dreams.
Unlike Paris,
a man will not build a tower
in you, Manila,
to have a promise made
under your stars,
but with just a monument
of a hero who proved
that pen is mightier than sword,
I promise to scribble
poetries for you.
With forgotten words,
I begin to forge poetry
in your stars.
And no matter
how much I wish
to those Manila stars...
I will never be able to understand
why he has left Prague
(when that place
plays the piano
of the girl she loves)
just to reap sampaguitas
from your heart, Manila.
His poetry
cannot be written
in your lonelines...
but, Manila, don't forget him,
'cause his love for you
is more than pure.
Manila,
I so tried to count those stars
and find the constellation
of a hemp
that's stuck in your heart,
but I found myself trapped
between your history
and unravelled sorrows.
Love is always pure in Manila,
and love is always pure, Manila.
You, Manila, are the reason
why a famous portraitist
would paint about
bright sun-drenched countrysides,
why my Big Brother chose
to die behind those
enduring, rustic,
and formidable walls,
the reason why his poetry
will remain forgotten eternally.
Beautiful like his poetry
that will never return
is this city
that holds his farewell.
