To know that
Manila cannot hold...

You describe my existence
by creating...

Summer has ended,
and I've never heard your voice...

Was it you last night?
Like a recurring dream...

Yes, I still hear your voice
echoing in those former alleyways...

Lately, I have been remembering
so much of my younger years...

You always
want Roses...

Your whispers are like
a Rastafarian flower...

As happiness begins to vanish
under your Orchid firmament...

This afternoon feels like
the time I wrote again...

Petals from a flower
are scattered in the thick air...

A brown paper
encourages me to write...