Battleground

A rain of well-trimmed arrows,

Of tips touched with poison,

Let from the brightest of chariots

Knit His mighty chest.

 

He too was handy with arrows,

But didn’t make them rain.

For who was Arjun, but his own blood,

And who was He, but a mere flesh born to die.

 

(Of He whose father has flames for hair.)

Advertisements

4 thoughts on “Battleground

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s