Whether would I turn my blade to rabbits,
Nestled warm in farmer's cabbage cropping,
Or to robbers swift in thieving habits,
Lacking guidance would my edge dull, dropping.
Whether would I set my aim to sparrows,
Nested high in safety softly singing,
Or to killers grim, snap would my arrows,
Knowing not for which demand their stringing.
Whether would I take my torch to grasses,
Lain wide under fairest breeze cascading,
Or to bandits haunting darkened passes,
Left of conscience would my flame cool, fading.
Though, from choices such, we fall in hiding;
Saint and villain battle for our siding.