MAHABHARATA CONDENSED INTO ENGLISH ... - Mandhata Global

Torn from husband's sweet embraces, from her son's entwining arms,
Doomed to life-long woe and anguish in her youth and in her charms,
Rend my hard and stony bosom crushed beneath this cruel pain,
Should Gandhari live to witness noble son and grandson slain?
Mark again Duryodhan's widow, how she hugs his gory head,
How with gentle hands and tender softly holds him on his bed,
How from dear departed husband turns she to her dearer son,
And the tear-drops of the mother choke the widow's bitter groan,
Like the fibre of the lotus tender-golden is her frame,
O my lotus! O my daughter! Bharat's pride and Kuru's fame!
If the truth resides in Vedas, brave Duryodhan dwells above,
Wherefore linger we in sadness severed from his cherished love,
If the truth resides in Sastra, dwells in sky my hero son,
Wherefore linger we in sorrow since their earthly task is done?
IV
FUNERAL RITE
Victor of a deathful battle, sad Yudhishthir viewed the plain,
Friends and kinsmen, kings and chieftains, countless troops untimely slain,
And he spake to wise Sudharman pious priest of Kuru's race,
Unto Sanjay, unto Dhaumya, to Vidura full of grace,
Spake unto the brave Yuyutsu, Kuru's last surviving chief,
Spake to faithful Indrasena, and to warriors sunk in grief:
"Pious rites are due to foemen and to friends and kinsmen slain,
None shall lack a fitting funeral, none shall perish on the plain."
Wise Vidura and his comrades sped on sacred duty bound,
Sandalwood and scented aloes, fragrant oil and perfumes found,
Silken robes of costly splendour, fabrics by the artist wove,
Dry wood from the thorny jungle, perfume from the scented grove,
Shattered cars and splintered lances, hewed and ready for the fire,
Piled and ranged in perfect order into many a funeral pyre.