Primroses,
eternal, they are...

Petals,
autumnal, spiralling...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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