The gallows is ready. The masses are howling. He hears their insults and battle cries, their calls of injustice. The platform trembles from the noise. Death awaits beneath him. His forehead glistens with beads of sweat. His skin burns red. The sun strikes at noon. The gallows is ready. The noose tightens slowly around his neck, the hemp leaving scratches across his throat. His knees weigh heavier every passing second. He wonders how it happened, why it happened, that in spite of the good he did for this country, he finds himself finally at the receiving end of the gallows. Did he not pay his police and military enough? Did he not massacre farmers protesting for their rights to land enough? Did he not arrest activists voicing their dissent against his government enough? "ENOUGH!" the crowd echoes, as though reading his mind. They all stare at him with their judgmental eyes. They see his head and they want it gone. The sun burns bright: every time he opens his eyes he sees black smudges under the white light. The vision is blurry. The masses appear like black sludge flowing in an ocean of fire. The gallows is ready. His nerves are numb by now, his ears too. The masses are howling: they are louder than the barrage of bullets when the military opened fire against a crowd of protesters. Could it be that he mishandled inflation? That he approved the wrong policies? Could it be that he is guilty of corruption? That he embezzled the people's money? Could it be that this is not his execution rather our retribution? The gallows is ready. The trapdoor will snap open at any moment. The hangman grips the lever. The convicts are shivering from the fright, pissing their pants. Any second now he will drop, fidget and bounce. Any second now the rope will squeeze him, mark into his skin, choke his breath away, and snap the bone of his neck. Any second now his body will hang suspended, legs dangling in the air. Any second now everything, everything, he used to be will become nothing, will cease to exist, just a lifeless shell of his former self. Any second now justice will be served, a dictator gone from the Earth. The gallows is ready. War criminals, landlords, compradors, and their goons—they all line up on the scaffold, facing death with pale-white faces. The hangman asks, "Any last words?" However, as he is about to open his mouth to speak, the hangman pulls the lever. The legs drop simultaneously. The bodies start to dance to the howling masses, the music of victory. The people are cheering, chanting, laughing and hugging. The masses now appear like an ocean of fire devouring that black sludge. Their burning passion spreads, demonstrating at last what a single spark can start. The dances stop but the music continues. Let the world know that the gallows swallows even the worst of men. The gallows is ready. And so are the masses.

The beloved warrior takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes and clears his mind. Time moves slower when he's lying down—it creeps through your skin like a snail on a leaf. Time moves slowly, but it moves nonetheless. He begins to rethink his journey, the high points and the low points, those agonizing years in solitary confinement, what seemed to be hopeless days of nothing but isolation and torment. They stick to the mind forever. Time moves slowly when you're in pain. He endured more than he could bear, and to think that he remains intact is beyond his own comprehension. The beloved warrior is incredulous: how on Earth did he go through such hardship, he does not even know. Such is life. Those days may have seemed hopeless, but every day, a glimmer of hope shines through the cracks of his cell. He scours for more fragments of memory. He recalls the successes, the important victories—there are endless of them too—and the beloved warrior starts to smile. Ambushes, seizures, shots, demonstrations, mobilizations, and strikes—they all count, they all matter. They stick to the heart forever. The beloved warrior takes another breath. It pains him, but he smiles nonetheless. He keeps his eyes closed and waits. He is waiting for victory. Even in his white room, a glimmer of hope shines through: time won't arrive anytime soon. Time moves slower when you're in pain, that old snail-on-a-leaf simile. He hopes to witness victory with his own eyes and only then will he open them again. The beloved warrior is patient. He clutches at his blanket. The movement is now stronger, he remembers. Even after he had left, the movement never wavers. The movement continues—it sticks to the world forever. The beloved warrior takes a deep breath, not knowing it is his last. He takes one last look at the light above him, and sees the glimmer of hope that brightens the future. The beloved warrior sleeps. But the masses are awake.

Gone are the awful days of hunger and grease As we head to Mendiola and gaze at the momentum of the breeze where the tyrant stays full of arrogance and bliss where we had put him in his place raising our fists Tears run down our face like blood on police The castle engulfed in flames crumbling piece by piece These are just the ways tyranny shall cease Set Malacañang ablaze and seize our peace Crack the grave open and break the coffin to pieces—he will not be resting in peace with the fallen heroes any longer. Exhume his bones or the dust of what's left of him. Sprinkle his ashes all over their rotten remains. Grab your shovels and shove the soil back into the trenches. Leave no mark but a stain of piss and a dribble of spit across the tomb. No more kindness. No more forgiveness. No more second chances. No more trips to Hawaii. No tears for the tyrants, no redemption for dynasties. Revolutionary justice reigns supreme. Bury the bureaucrats. Bury the capitalists. Bury the perpetrators and their accomplices. Bury the landlords. Bury the imperialists. Bury them all six feet deep beneath the dustbin of history.