On a sunny day, in the agora,

My teacher asked me:

"What is a knife?"

What a strangely simple question.

"A knife is a weapon."

I answered with pride.

"Is that so?"

The old jackal waddled to a bench.

With the assist of his cane,

He sat with a grunt.

"When a butcher cuts the meat,

Is the knife he uses a weapon as well?"

He stumped me, but not for long.

"Yes. It harms the meat,

So it must be a weapon."

He answered me with a grin.

I fell in one of his traps again.

"Now suppose you find a comrade in a net,

And you cut the rope with a dagger.

Is the knife a weapon then?"

I rushed to answer.

"No. It doesn't harm anyone."

I realized my answer immediately after,

My face quickly heated.

He just cackled.

"Chalkinos, listen well.

A knife is a tool. Always is.

Even if it has the power to harm,

The one to make it a weapon

Is its wielder."

I looked in awe at the man.

He was inspiring and unchanging.

Home had a strange air about it.

But I could find in him 

Balance.

Another jackal entered my life.

I misjudged him.

Even if my hand was led,

It was the one to brandish the weapon.

In my bed, I heard,

Along with the footsteps that left my room,

Master Sophron's smug cackling.