The world may rise or not,
The Sun does his job neat.
As usual the day broke,
At the due time-stroke.
The hour of the battle came,
Everyone tense became.
"Who'll lose what kind? "
It was hovering in their mind.
The seventh day brings Bhishma's wrath,
A storm of arrows across my path.
He stands like a rock, firm and tall,
Unyielding, unbroken, at every call.
Krishna knows my struggle well,
My hesitation in this mortal shell.
He urges me forward, to let arrows fly,
But the tears within me refuse to die.
Each strike is heavy, each blow I give,
Reminds me of those I wish could live.
But this is the war I was meant to fight,
Even when love and duty collide in the night.
Meanwhile there came Bhisma,
To challenge against Abhimanyu,
But I rushed to save him,
The other Pandavas joined him.
Bhisma tackled all the five.
Abhimanyu was saved alive.
By sunset they became tired,
Back to their tents all retired."
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Scars Of An Archer: A Poetic Rendition✅
PoesíaCover Credits:@Sparkle012m Unending glory, Undying fame Unmatched was he, Unwavering his aim 'Savyasachi' Shooting swiftly using two Hands Subdued many Unconquerable Lands 'Dhananjaya', forged by Outer Conquest 'Vijaya', moulded by his inner quest '...
