Alone in the kuru kshetra, bare handed,
Today’s Abhimanyu fights a losing battle;
The enemies around him
Poke and prick his frail body,
Inflicting uncountable injuries.
He hopes to endure the blows
Of boastful boots trying to trample him;
Fierce claws falling upon the face.
Who formed that array,
And forced him in?
That sapling against the cyclone
Bleeds some dharma;
O’ Fathers and Uncles--
Would you endure this?
Where are your mighty arms?
Do you wait to hear the fate of a slender rose
crushed between big boulders
and see your blood
smeared on mother’s bosom?
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