I, born blind, yet now in darkness more profound
Your speech, beseech, that my Light may be Sound
Say- Were our battle eager Barons not abashed when they found
Their bellicose display profaned Kuru’s holy ground?
Nay, blind to all but their, mirrored, martial array
Only defeat, not desecration, their thoughts could dismay
Though who die on the field of Kuru’s sacred fane
By your ancestor’s boon, sure, Heaven attain
Who go there to slay- like gamblers gloating at a game they have fixed
In the wine of their winnings but Honour’s ashes are mixed-
Yet, I admit, your son, for one, to his Guru sped his way
But, it was to shore up his own support, not for guidance to pray
Saying, “There stand the students you taught to draw the bow
“Now jesting & contesting whose arrow shall lay you low...
"There stand the traitors- captained by the son of your false friend
"Lives you might have ended, were Loyalty your true end...
“But now hear, best of 'Brahmins', of the berzerkers in my ranks
“Innumerable Heroes, intent, with their lives, to buy my thanks!”
But I spare you his roll call of clients obligated and allies opportune
Bombast not for Bards, but the Eunuch’s euphonious tune...
Seeing the great Guru stand silent, or, simply, your son’s spirits to raise
Blew the conflict commencing conch, Bhishma, beyond praise.
Your grand-sire’s clarion being echoed by others on his side
Lord Krishna, and your nephews, in like terms replied.
& all Heaven and Earth trembled at that soul ravening roar
Rending the hearts of its hearers who had roared just before
Then spoke Arjun to Lord Krishna, who, his charioteer to boast
Had bartered away the strength of a battle hardened host
“Twixt the assembled armies, Thou Changeless, direct now my car
"To see how mercenary are those mustered for this unjust war”
Not choosing to whet Arjun’s valour upon visages malicious or mean
To Guru Drona & Grandsire Bhishma, straight, Kishan drove his team
For both in Virtue abound- bound by no higher Law than their vow
& Timocratic thymos however courteous their bow
Serving Kings, forfeiting Kingdoms, in but fealty to their word
Not Justice, nor yet that Kingdom never of this world
And who, of your son’s bounty, having no cause for complaint
Cleave to his cause, though knowing him no saint.
It was to these two great warriors- impossible for Arjun to best
That Kishan drove your nephew- his mettle to test.
Yet, not his courage then quavered, nor confidence wavered but- strange to say
Compassion there seized him, such Sorrow besieged him- his valour ebbed away
“I tremble and stare, my hair stands on end,
Seeing elder, preceptor, kinfolk and friend
Eager for battle
lowing their bliss
at butchery’s abyss
Whom, if nothing else can warn,
Let my bloody body impede
their idiot stampede
For life is nothing once loved ones are gone
These are my kinfolk- Keshava!
Though Greed misled them
This doom I dread them
Their families will fail
Their widows wail
& daughters harlots turn
Hell fire their ancestors burn!
My ancestors- Keshava!"
Saying which, the puissant Prince cast aside his bow and unable to stand
Was crushed down in his chariot seat by sorrow’s feeble hand.
Lord Krishna had sought but Arjuna’s martial ardour to feed
Upon the sight of warriors worthy of his arrow’s worshipful speed
Whom ’twere a puzzle to best
An exacting test
Not a conclusion foregone
That they he’d mourn
For by boon Celestial
and their own butchering skills bestial
Drona and Bhishma could not be killed
Save they themselves so willed
Which fact, if mentioned, might his cause retard
Thus Kishan, hoist with his own petard
Said only - ‘whine not like a little pussy, you big girl’s blouse! ’
“Well at least my pussy is little- yours’s bigger than a house!”
A retort Arjuna didn’t make- restoring amity
But rather continued to whine- a true calamity
For such indeed, is the tradition of your House
The heir rightful to yield- coz he’s a big girl’s blouse
Devapi & Bhishma, but worse, Vyasa, Shuka, to God
Chitrangada alone battling- defeated poor sod
By that jealous demi-Divinity disputing his name
Dying, as Men must, the Heavens to defame
But, not Arjun, no, for that chaksushi vidya he’d been given
A sort of world withering second sight - or arrow that is driven
Backwards into eyes by what might otherwise blind them
Unloosing Light’s lasso from heads severed to thus bind them
As Iravan’s head that sees all I see
Shedding, perhaps, Tears where I go pee-pee...
But, to get back to what Arjuna said
‘I’d rather be dead
Than on such offal fed
As on which fatten, but, vulture & culture
Whoredom and kingdom
Title that is but theft’s requital
or Desire- that liar
or Pride- that pre & Pan fucked bride
or, once Shame’s a goner,
Actually, he didn’t say that. I mean, it’s what he should have said
’stead of whining like a pussy about how his heart bled
For his cousins and Uncles and other such shite
For agenbite of inwit did that nitwit much bite
How battle Compassion? Against Pity what avails?
Its bitter taunt, the bravest daunt, yet, here, Love fails
What advice can one give to one better advised?
What redaction to a text, remorse has revised?
Lord Krishna was silent- what, after all, could he say?
Himself the soul of Arjun’s compassionate dismay
Till Arjun, waxing eloquent in unaccustomed speech
Outran Ruth, to Truth, in Rhetoric, over-reach
Saying “My Compassion is weak- not my Nature knows this weakness
& Duty’s path ever doubtful- such my Warrior Mind’s obliqueness
Yet, tho’ of your Treasury, the merest trifle
What in me is your disciple
Owns wholly and longs to own
You Lord and you alone
As the Unifier of my Empire entire
& Unequivocal voice my I might suspire
My Freedom wretched save as thy dole
Sole Refuge, mine, Persecute my soul!
Redeem my victory, bleak, over Men and God
For not I shall fight for such bitter reward!”
Well, he didn’t actually say that- but you get the gist
Compassion such a cunt it oft appears to have jizz’t
A truth analytic, not Synthetic, as Kant Emanuelle assumed
Like ‘Bugger not a Brummie after a Balti he’s consumed’
For Kurukshetra is the Polish Space for Jorgensen’s dilemma
Such that Brouwer Choice Sequences evolve Zorn’s lemma
& Everybody is everybody by Banach Tarski
& Huggy Bear the Brahma of Hutch & Starsky
To be or not to be that is the riddle
& Occluded we - the excluded middle
But here I will stop coz, blind buddy, you’re busted!
You say you want to see but turn away disgusted
War aint a cutesy rom com video you can rent
To watch with your girl or bum chums wot are bent
War isn’t a joke- mark me well
Coz of all the philosophy that gets spoke- War is Hell!
Dhritirashtra- Sanjay, Suta, your speech is strange
& like Light, doubtful, & by Lust deranged
Sanjaya- Suta? You mistake me, I very much fear
For that guy sleeping there- your charioteer
I’m not a Suta but Sanjay Sharma!
Dhritirashtra- Not the Bard’s, you follow the Brahmin’s dharma?
Sanjaya- Neither, Sir, or both, for I’m a born I.T professional
Dhritarashtra- Your Gita then the Knowledge Empire’s Recessional?
Sanaya- Nope, I’m just that Sharma that next to Iyer had my seat
In Mr. Yadav’s Hindi class, who Anglophones did much beat
Till, with him, they took private tuition
Or for imported Whiskey by Vedic intuition
divined his desire, or appeased his ire
divined his desire, or appeased his ire
Like Rajiv- Serene- now a game theorist in Austin
Who, actually learn’t Hindi, a Tea Party at Boston
For, Verb sap, says Vivek, a word to the Wise
All Independence commences in Indian disguise
Dhritirashtra- I don’t believe you, my piss you surely take
Blind tho’ I be, buddy, BIG fucking mistake!
Sanjaya- All right! I’m that aforementioned Iyer Vivek
Whom to Gita’s glory, a Yadav slap, did awake
In St. Columba’s School, New Delhi, circa ‘75
Dead now to Sophia, but, in Cyber-Space alive
Met up with you here by some glitch tachyonic
My ISP so crap and my router something chronic
Which is actually quite good news for you
Seeing as I can do
More than your Suta- for my vision is diachronic
Just the thing, blind King, & for your ears a tonic
Dhritarashtra- Cunt! curtail your queef!
Vivek- Can’t. But I’ll be brief.