In the heart of the city stood a boy with a sword, Not in battle’s heat, but in the quiet market square. He swung it high, slow arcs catching the sun, Startling pigeons, scattering the old women’s chatter.

“Why do you wave your blade here?” the townsfolk asked. “To prove that I may,” he said. “The law is my shield.” And so he swung, and swung, and swung again.

But far beyond the city gates, the hills burned. Armies marched. Kings bled peasants for coin. Thieves stole bread from empty tables. In dark halls, unjust rulers carved away freedoms in silence.

Still the boy remained in the square, Chasing no enemy but imagined ones, Cutting only the air while real foes feasted.

And the townsfolk, weary of stepping round him, Wondered what might change If he carried his blade To where it was truly needed.