A turned back, a whispered word,
A hidden blade: no truth is heard.
Where sight grows dim, the tendrils creep.

Weeds thrive in the dark where secrets sleep.

This backstab art I do not know;
Its crooked grace, its silent blow.
My hands are clumsy, my skills are poor. I have no taste for that dark lure.

So teach me, kindly, not the strike,
But how to see before the knife;
Show me the angle, how to read
The tiny rust that hints misdeed.

I’ll learn the stance, refuse the fee,
Let honesty be my warranty.
Perhaps through light I’ll come to see
A truer way for you and me.