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Integritet nema cijenu, a ni vrijednost
temelj je za stvarnu zdravu izglednost
u kojoj se živi, raste, razvija, djeluje, voli
jer ponajbolje procesuira događaje, boli.

On je u nama poput kompasa i sata
ključ koji otvara od srca i duše vrata
frekvencija koja ulazi jasna i čista, te
čini da nam se lice ozari, sjajem blista.

Nema tu pretvaranja niti kakve prevare
nikakve avanture, ni afere, niti predaje
okolnostima i očekivanjima tog društva
koja pred silom tako lako glavu spušta.

Lažnom autonomijom po muškoj mjeri
gdje se javno obmanjuje, a tajno veseli
sigurnost i navike koje ih identificiraju
dok se nezadovoljstvom ne inficiraju.

Pa se uhvate poroka i prekomjernog rada
nije im važno ni jučer, ni sutra, kamoli sada
guše u sebi poznati i dragi svoj stari lik
da se ne bio čuo tog vapaja i gubitka krik.

Uvjeravaju sebe da su očekivanja važna
da nezadovoljstvo podnose pleća snažna
smiješe se lažno, a otkrivaju zaborav manira
javno ipak ne mogu zapečatiti svrhu odabira.

Pa se bore između dojma, jave i reakcije
hrane se dijelom sreće zadobivene ovacije
procesuiraju u sebi montirane satisfakcije
jer neki su ipak priznati kraljevi kalkulacije.

Srce im se povodi lakšim putem okoline
duša im odlazi u neke nepoznate divljine
um im je zbunjen i opterećen u labirintu
ljudi bez integriteta sebi su stavili stigmu.

S ljubavlju, Željka.

Integrity has no price, nor any value,
it’s the foundation for true, healthy radiance,
where we live, grow, develop, act, and love—
for it best processes events, and pain.

It lives in us like a compass and a clock,
the key that unlocks the doors of heart and soul,
a frequency that enters clear and pure,
making our face glow, shining with brilliance.

No pretense here, no deceit of any kind,
no adventures, affairs, nor surrender
to circumstances and society’s expectations,
which so easily bow their heads before force.

False autonomy by a masculine measure,
publicly deceiving, privately rejoicing,
security and habits that define them,
until infected by dissatisfaction.

They cling to vices and excessive work,
caring not for yesterday, tomorrow, or now,
smothering their familiar, dear old self,
so as not to hear that cry of longing and loss.

They convince themselves expectations matter,
that they bear dissatisfaction with strong shoulders,
they smile falsely, revealing forgotten manners,
yet publicly can’t seal the purpose of their choice.

They struggle between impressions,
reality, and reaction,
feeding on fragments of happiness
from applause earned,
processing manufactured satisfactions within,
for some are acclaimed kings of calculation

Their hearts yield to the easier
path of surroundings,
their souls wander into unknown wilds,
their minds confused and burdened in a labyrinth—
people without integrity have
branded themselves with stigma.

With love, Željka.