Classic Poem

In the forward march of battle, with the royal drum enwrapped in thongs
roaring, how can there be any victory left to be won? They came
but could not stand against your vanguard. They scattered and they ran!
Kings without majesty, they evaded what would have been done
had their deaths come naturally, of sickness, and their bodies taken
to be laid out on ever green grass of the finest kind by Brahmins
schooled in the Four Vedas and the principles of Righteousness,
who would have then chanted, “Go to where the great warriors go!
those who wear their splendid war anklets, those who have died
in a good battle and kept faith in their manhood!” and forgetting
any love they may have had for them, they would have then wounded
the bodies with the sword so as to free them of sin and buried them.
But no! Because you, great and wonderful! slaying, scattering the battle
around you as elephants fell on the killing field, the juices of their musth
flowing into their mouths where dragonflies
were humming, you sustained a noble wound while you were charging forward!