Your footsteps have built a metropolis,
yet we remain...

When this world
let every...

Is your sky still crimson?
Does Manila draw a lonely Azalea...

Old Roses-
rustic, uncertain...

And here I am again
getting up from bed...

This day
smells like...

Within
Cinnabar-filled...

Subtly,
its fragrance pervades the air...

Hand-knitted dreams
are what I get...

I remember that July 24 afternoon one yesteryear
as Giant Brocade Crowns bloom in the night sky...

While the rain
redolent...

Your words
are fossils...