On the frontier stood Shikandi reincarnation of Amba with fire of blacksmith’s forge in the eyes.
Bhishma leave a breath–
like the one that blow in the spring through the gardens of Hastinapur sussurate of the sins disposing the glory that’s exhausting like the orange of sun when in the west, or one that travel touching the holy Ganga soothing and calming, purest of the purest.
He Son of Ganga closed his eyes–
darkness lurked in shining the smile of the time, darkness that’s compete with eclipse of the sun whose blue depth the blankness of a moment flowing like mountain river in summer.
One after another bows of Arjun touch Bhishma
like blow of storm strikes its swirl on the most ancient tree in the jungle and
as the tree should after a time
to rest on the bed of arrows.
Note: The first stanza is just a prelude to begin the main poem.