Answer:
Always old, sometimes new. Never sad, sometimes blue. Never empty, sometimes full. Never pushes, always pulls.
What's black when you get it, red when you use it, and white when you're all through with it?
What is round as a dishpan, deep as a tub, and still the oceans couldn't fill it up?
My teeth are sharp, my back is straight, to cut things up it is my fate.
I cut through evil like a double edged sword, and chaos flees at my approach. Balance I single-handedly upraise, through battles fought with heart and mind, instead of with my gaze.
What covers its face with its hands, speaks no language, yet most known what it's saying?