The eighteenth day started.
Duryodhana just sorted
What was so far done?
Things yet to be done?

Day eighteen dawns, the final call,
The war nears its end, yet I feel small.
The Kauravas crumble, their ranks grow thin,
But victory here cannot cleanse this sin.

Duryodhana falls, defeated at last,
But the price of this war is too vast.
I look around at the bodies that lay,
The cost of dharma in disarray.

Bhishma lies broken, Drona is gone,
My son is dead, and I stand alone.
Victory is hollow, filled with pain,
For what have I gained, but endless rain?

Krishna speaks of the soul’s eternal light,
Of dharma’s victory, of truth’s pure might.
But in my heart, all I see is loss,
For the price of this war was too high a cost.

The war is over, yet the battle remains,
In the hearts of those who bear its stains.
And so, with a heavy heart, I lay down my arms,
For the world will never be the same, despite its charms.