Blessed by Vyasa with divine sight, Sanjaya sits alone, Day and night beside the sacrificial fire of the age, Ready to tell the blind king tales of battle— It is settled. The light-speech of dawn Spreads across the whole battlefield in vast expanse— With destruction's prelude, the age-spirit wakes To creation's new rhythm; that battle-music plays, And on time's shore, the clouds of apocalypse gather. The curtain parts before Sanjaya's eyes In a single instant, and his vision alights Upon countless encampments—hundreds of thousands of archers, Broad-chested warriors with raised heads in ordered rows. He sees Duryodhana go to his guru Dronacharya And speak of war's provisions with tumultuous joy. Victory's many hopes dwell in his breast, confidence in his stride— Life seems to find all its purpose in the battle's swell, In the virile flood that sweeps the field! The Pandava forces appear arrayed in formation!
Suddenly he sees the mighty Partha, Arjuna, stricken with grief, His body trembling...face drawn, terribly unsteady! He sits upon the chariot, kneeling—his question quivers, Anguish blooms at the corner of his eyes; "What good is victory won by slaying kinsmen in battle?" The Gandiva slips from his hand, his lotus eyes swim with tears! "O Krishna, I want no conquest, no kingdom's pleasure—all that is vain; In the destruction of teachers and grandfathers, there is not even a grain of gain For remaining alive in this world! O Madhava, what joy shall I know From slaughtering so many kinsmen? In this vast cosmos, I shall become defiled as one who destroys his own line, lose all honor." Thus speaks the ambidextrous archer, and in sorrow, he lays down bow and arrow!
There stands before him Keshava—in those eyes, stretching wide, The vision of age-consciousness gazes toward the horizon. With his left hand touching Arjuna's knee, he holds the conch, While his right hand forms the gesture of fearlessness—that is heaven's name— What immortal message flows from him! From his fresh-green, radiant body, rays of light pour forth— Only spreads the eternal's vast glory! Beyond the endless truth of infinity, passing every limit, In that gesture lies the seat of the infinite's luminous realm! Darkness departs, passion yields to the honor of pure being! There is no weakness there, no spiritlessness at all— When death brings heaven, the call to victory teaches what war truly means To the ocean-bearing earth!—The soul does not perish, This immortal message comes, from him who is immortal's form! All scriptures gathered in one beautiful form of joy; Sankhya and Patanjali find harmony, one upon the other! He is like the boy Nachiketa—his quest for death's meaning Comes thus to blend one note at the feet of this form! Action comes without desire, made honeyed in devotion's light— Knowledge meets here, weaving the timeless confluence of liberation; When unrighteousness comes, from this form's manifestation Comes the punishment of misdeeds—this fearlessness, life's true gain.
Such words—whether transcendent or embodied—stir to life within, And the light of the spirit holds them eternally in embrace! Hrishikesha speaks: "Ambidextrous one, whom shall you slay?" Arjuna awakes with a start, and all around him Countless faces and eyes appear, infinite divine ornament, His form resplendent with celestial fragrance, adorned with heavenly garlands, The brilliance of a thousand suns makes that form luminous, The whole universe floats—that form's cosmic play inexhaustible. In that body awakens the divine sage, Brahma's lotus-throne within, The immutable, supreme, knowable—that eternal, timeless person! From his mouth blazes the consuming fire, the terrestrial world grows hot with his radiance, The beginning, middle, and end—there is nothing, nothing beyond! From that form's body, heat spreads through the world, Consuming this universe, then illuminating it once more!
See this form, O Partha, know thyself in truth, Radiant fearlessness blooming at the world's twilight hour! Gone are Bhishma, gone Drona, Karna, Kripacharya, Duryodhana; In destruction's sacred fire-pit, the seed of creation uttered! The Panchajanya conch sounds—that music of knowledge wedded to devotion, From Kurukshetra rises the fullest Song of the Blessed Lord.