Mid-battle field, bowing to the omniscient.
Words of wisdom listened to with intent.
Long-haired archer of a warrior clan
Twangs his bow, summoning the Almighty plan.
Sacred vows of golden crown
Upheld by valourous arms of renown.
On a bed of arrows, let to die,
A grandsire of his own warrior tribe:
A summons to death in the art of war,
Utmost grief held by the call of Karma.
Piercing the earth,
Quenching the thirst.
Valour is in the killing of those you love
And honour is in the respect of those you hate.
Sweet father, seeking sweet vengeance-
For a son pierced, smeared in brethren blood,
Holding a chariot wheel in self-defence.
- Shrieks of helpless madness out of hopeless love.
"Son", he shall be called no more.
Deep surge of fierce, bloodied, wounded hate.
Stung, shattered, raging on,
Twanging his bow, radiating fury-
Summoning a battle-fear in the foe.
Ruthless war in a ruthless world.
"Duty is justice" - laws carved in a land of old.
"I am the long haired archer of warrior-clan.
After war comes peace in this aancient land.
I am humble protector of my men,
Set on this earth by God's fateful pen.
Listen for peace's silent echo
In the twang of my sacred, fiery bow.
I am the end of what had begun-
Mighty Kurukshetra was fought and won."