Threshing them like standing stooks of grain Of the Pándavas are pinned the obstacle,Ībove all others, the son of DhritarashtraĪrjuna has fought scores of bloody battles, Is the point, the mainspring of the action. The bow, Gandíva, drops from his nerveless hand.įor Krishna – for each differently – Arjuna His eyes stream with tears, his limbs tremble,
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Of death not yet begun – there, at that point With each blade whetted, every weapon honed There, in the moment before hell’s unleashing, One east, one west with ten thousand conchesīlaring out in challenge, the din of cymbalsĪnd the deep, heart-stopping throb of war drums,Īnd there, with every soldier tense and ready, This, the well-trained warrior’s highest calling.įear, suffering and grief would follow later. In both, men’s hearts were filled with joy and pride The close-packed troops and beasts, constantly moving,īoth armies were terrible, both beautiful. The flashing gold and bronze rivalled the sun. So much armour, on elephants, horses, men! Others sat erect on the necks of elephants Others, bright flowers, stars, eagles, comets… One king’s standard carried a scarlet bull,
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With noble banners, each with its own emblem. The chariots of the princesĪnd all the royal allies were resplendent The heat slowly burned off the mist that hungĪs far as the eye followed the curving earth.Īll was brilliant.
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To the king) streaked the sky with scarlet. As morning broke on the opening day of war,