i may be hard to please
this i may accept, while
in Baguio as i walk Burnham
park again early dawn when
my breath freezes in the wind
i cannot be notice, how
swans are made from wood,
how a man-made lake turns
to its muddy color, not at
all pleasing to my senses.
how i left the place and
found my way back to your
arms again, so, so displeased.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem