In public,
I wear it well —
A mask of smiles,
Words sharp and light,
Jokes like armor,
Eyes that never seem to waver.

You see the me I've crafted —
But not the pain,
Not the struggles,
Not the tears,
Not the humiliations I've endured.

All of it — covered, hidden by:
Persona, protege me ab ulterius hominibus qui de me ridebant, semel ostendi infirmitatem meam, et ideo omnes non solum curaverunt, sed etiam me contumeliis affecerunt.

But with the mask,
All seems like fine, smooth glass —
Perfect, flawless,
Untouched.

Yet beneath that glass,
Cracks grow deeper,
Thin lines of truth,
Splitting under pressure.

Waiting for the moment
It all will break —
And when it breaks,
Will they see me?
Or just the shattered pieces?
Will they reach out,
Or step on the shards?
Will I be free,
Or filled with insults of my weakness?

And so, I wear the mask.

In Warsaw’s heart, I step inside,  
Old memories rush, I can’t hide.  
"My love," she smiles, "I’m glad you're here,"  
But I sigh, "I wish it were mine, my dear."  

The street outside, through glass so dim,  
I step out, the world feels grim.  
A crash - glass falls, she calls my name,  
"All’s well," I say, through bleeding pain.  

Her smile stays, my love remains.