Saturday, January 02, 2016

2280 : Arjuna's dirge

Oh, my hero born as Abhimanyu, where are you?
I was told - the world has you, and then a few,

Today, as I weep over your mangled face,
With blood clotted over, stopped in its pace,

I remember you as the unborn silent learner, 
Chakravyuh - its tricks, and you were the yearner,

When Subhadhra told me of your charming kicks,
We had both laughed and then smothered with kisses and licks,

Today, this evening, what do I tell your lovely mother,
That you have left this world, for the charm of the other?

They will tell her you were both a hero and a martyr,
Your young cheek is snarled, tell me it was whose spear?

Tell me, who was it - Karna, Drona, Bheeshma, or Duryodhan,
The mighty generals on the other side, on our side just one (you),

When you were a toddler, you once haughtily said,
For you, dad, I will fight and be readily dead,

I had a laughed and stroked your tiny goldirocks,
How I miss those moonlight walks,

You holding and grasping my aged palm,
The little fingers strong, still and yet so warm,

Where have you gone Abhimanyu, there is so much grief tonight,
The sun is gone, but the moon on your face still breathes light,

Come back as a ghost who can do nothing else but talk,
I will gladly take that, anything to get you on my nightly walk,

Son, what kind of a father lives to see his shadow dead,
I have counted, you have 108 wounds through which you have bled,

I will not rest, till I personally get each of those generals to die,
Just like me, I want, their loved ones to cry a goodbye,

So much pain, I wish the earth swallowed me in,
After all this, does it matter if we even win?

Your mother will grieve and she will wail and cry,
Today, I cannot even muster to look into her eye,

When these times are past, and our stories are told,
You son, shall be the role model to behold,

I know you will be the hero and the anchor within this history,
Your skills will be regaled, though Chakravyuh (to you) remained a mystery,

My chest heaves, and I feel a pang of gloat, 
As I know the poets of the future, will make your persona bloat,

But tonight, if I had a choice to make,
I will still take you alive in any form or shape,

Rest in peace, my son, the fields are soaked in your blood,
It will always be an honor to me, that you chose to make yourself in my mud.

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