A disgruntled toast,

to revolutions that topple thrones, but never the table.

They gather–the ousted, pardoned, and resurged.

They feast. They laugh. They clink their glasses.

To impunity. To systemic amnesia. To evaded accountability.

The diners grin, their faces shifting—

Estrada to Gloria, Gloria to the next, the next to the same.

They dine on stolen futures, then call it progress.

Each bite grinds history’s bones into cocaine,

distorting truths etched on placards, yellow ribbons, chants.

If we pardon the table, we remain its feast.

This is no requiem—this is poetic justice:

the people must rise, not to dine,

but to dismantle their corrupt machinery.

Forgiveness must rot where justice should grow.

The essence of EDSA II pulses in the streets,

in hands that forge, in voices that defy silence,

carved deep in the rhythm of today’s revolt.

It echoes in every heartbeat, every step,

a fire that refuses to be extinguished.

So let them toast to dynasties,

to stolen elections, to pardoned sins.

The people are sharpening tongues and wills,

carving out space to end this feast of decay,

to sever the cords of complacency.

This time, the table will not only turn—it will ignite,

fueling the flames of the unfinished fight.