Day three emerges from the womb of fire,
The battlefield a furnace, each step higher.
Duryodhana’s voice is loud, full of pride,
As Pitamah Bhishma stands again on the other side.

I call out to him, but his heart remains sealed,
This war, this bloodshed, must first be healed.
My arrows rain upon the mighty old sage,
But his armor of virtue is my endless cage.

Krishna urges, "Do not relent,
The war for truth must not be spent."
So I push forward, through screams and cries,
But in each arrow, a part of me dies.