The Son’s Sorrow ( Abhimanyu’s Lament)

As I eavesdropped , lazy, on your prowess,
Within my cosy womb, so devoid of stress,
Heard you narrate on swift, secular strategies,
Me so proud of our ancestral, deprived horologies ,
You, impeded by Krishna, in his opaque, timeless balance,
From revealing all; mom, comfort zoned, tired in lost trance,
Me, rendered thus a partial warrior, experienced to enter,
None could, my futile and forlorn fury, withstand or deter,
My thought was just to be you, your hero , you my warrior,
We are but a race prior scrolled, born to be scarred superior,
I knew I was foregone, strewn ere I entered the field, the ring ,
Where the seasoned , experienced are unfair to the bold young,
They saw me destroy formations and bastions, in my fearsome retreat,
Broke my armour, but not my confidence in devious, combined deceit,
Oh! Father I cannot be you only because, the aged held back,
Refused the youth to disclose all , the truth to generously unpack.
On this set up battlefield of guilt, I have failed,
You hear my name, brave and loud and I am so ashamed .

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