From February twenty-two to twenty-five, 1986,
the sleeping road unfurled, a nation came alive.
EDSA, once camouflaged in the iron tide of traffic’s might,
became a mirror where golden hearts shone very bright.
No battle lines were etched in blood,
yet the essence of courage rose where fear once stood.
A voiceless struggle, earnest, but true,
a path of conscience we must see through.
We were no soldiers, trained to fight,
but mothers, workers, students—our hearts alight.
Ordinary unsung hands, yet firm and bold,
decided to stand while fear took hold.
No bombs split skies, no guns proclaimed,
as balance took place, lives reclaimed.
Hands that shudder held flowers near,
fingers gripped rosaries in utmost fear.
Candles challenged to blaze against the night,
small dark red flames resisting the might.
Before the tanks, no fits were raised,
only petals pressed, power amazed.
This is courage’s quiet art:
Not absence of fear, but a steadfast heart.
To remain when all instincts say, “Run,”
choosing again, until fear is undone.
Mothers feared the fates of sons in lines,
hearts break by the flow of time.
Yet they stayed, unbowed, unshaken,
for leaving meant a cost unspoken.
From twenty-two to twenty-five—the land,
work to itself, together, hand in hand.
Power surrendered, not seized by might,
when people refused to kneel, to fight.
History imprints that fateful year,
but its question still echoes clear:
What will we do with courage gained,
the gift of hearts that never waned?
Freedom lives where it’s defended,
in quiet choices, daily tended.
Voices rise and refuse to fall,
the strength of a nation, held by all.
On a highway meant for cars alone,
petals pressed and hearts full-grown.
A people proved something enduring:
That ordinary hands, offered in peace,
can tilt the weight of power…
And the strength of a nation begins within.
