Periwinkle skies, we've met again;
over my poetry-filled ancient garden...

Summer's tears and plastic cups,
daisy fields and apple pies...

An oak made friends with
the swallows on crying skies...

You smell of scorched bushes,
and you thought of stars as poets...

Tired eyes amidst forlorn skies,
widowed, decried, severed are those ties...

Amongst your restless waters, I slumber.
Dripping June, petrichor, dark horizon...

Primroses,
eternal, they are...

Petals,
autumnal, spiralling...

This place is not Copenhagen,
but this is Manila...