On the eighth day, grim resolve takes hold,
The warriors fight with hearts grown cold.
Each death feels less, each life feels lost,
As Kurukshetra exacts its terrible cost.

I see my brothers—Bhima, fierce as fire,
Nakula and Sahadeva, rising higher.
But with each swing, their spirits dim,
This war is breaking us, limb by limb.

Krishna’s words come like balm to my soul,
Urging me onward, keeping me whole.
"For righteousness, Arjun, you must not wane,
For in this struggle, all souls are lain."

My words of regret,
To hear it was too late.
Ghatotkacha, the demon,
On the enemies he fell upon.

On seeing this Bhima's son,
Ran far away every one,
For fear of being crushed,
Or out from the field pushed.

There arose between Duryodhana,
And Bhima's son Ghatotkacha,
A tough fight, which ended
When Drona came and defended.

Yudhishthira sent Bhima,
To assist Ghatotkacha,
The battle became fiercer
Then it grew tougher.

Duryodhana's brothers
Sixteen in numbers,
Perished that day,
In a miserable way