Oh, and the picture is what snow looks like, since it is topical at the moment. My fence is six feet high. The snow is half way up in this picture.
The supplicant knelt, head bowed, in the place of darkness, waiting for a sign, but none came.
“What should I do? One has grievously wounded me and I may never recover. Shall I smite them back?”
A rustling of dry scales rubbing together came from the darkest corner.
“Nothing. Do nothing,” came the sibilant reply.
“Then shall I have no justice?” The supplicant peered, blindly in the direction of the hissing voice.
“Time will bring justice. Time levels all.”
“The culprit will mock me if I do nothing.”
Scales rustled, restless. “The wound can not be ungiven and must heal or fester, as you will it. Hurting back solves no problems. The one who causes hurt must answer in the end as must all. Then, only then will you see justice done. Remember, justice is blind and takes the part of no man. The tip of the balance will decided the matter.”