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.)

4 thoughts on “Battleground

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