The ugly man, with a face carved by sorrow,

  Wanders by day, surrounded by murmurs so narrow.

  Passersby avert their eyes, murmur sharp words of disdain,

  As if his presence weighed on the air’s bright domain.

  But when evening falls, under the moon’s gentle gleam,

  The shadow of the ugly man fades like a dream.

  His silhouette rises, noble and bright,

  His face transformed, a radiant delight.

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  In alleys bathed in the glow of streetlights’ embrace,

  He strides with grace, under gazes misplaced.

  Laughter rings out, hearts race for his sight,

  For at night he dances, carefree and alight.

  The crowds search for him, beguiled by his charm,

  Unaware of the cruel fate that day can disarm.

  For with the dawn, he returns to exile’s guise,

  Donning the mask of an ugly man despised.

  So his life flows, between rejection and desire,

  A fate torn apart by dual realms that conspire.

  Yet in his heart, a spark forever insists:

  Beauty still slumbers, even in the saddest abyss.