I accuse

You know, I keep doing revisions. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. Here I am, posting for the sake of a comma and further thought. Be that as it may, and since I won't do a Telugu version, here is a poem about little people caught up in large events. I changed a few words too, so sue me.

They held me, like they beheld his chariot,
In awe.
The other charioteers did, until now.

If in the blood and gore
And slippery mess of battleground
The wheels suddenly did touch the earth,
Who would notice?

Not the cheering army of the five brothers;
Not the thunderstruck troops of the Kauravas.
Not Drona who was grieving,
Renouncing and dying;
Not the ungallant brother-in-law of my lord
Who was fulfilling his destiny.

Not his brothers who in battle lust were immersed.
Not the beloved Madhyama,
Bhima, whose deed my lord gave voice to,
He was grieving for his son;
Not Arjuna, following your divine lead
And chasing the self-accursed ones,
He was grieving for his son, too.
Not Nakula, the graceful one;
Not Sahadeva, the wise.

When the chariot stopped floating
Serenely superior
And landed abruptly,
Krishna, what must my lord have felt?
A lie however couched,
Asvatthama hatah; kunjarah.

You made him atone
For his brothers' sacrifices,
You made him tell a lie.

Did you have to bring even my lord
Down to a mere mortal, Krishna?
Did you have to prove that humanity is weak,
The right lever one can move worlds,
Make a truthful man a liar?

Not a born enemy my lord had,
Until you turned Asvatthama
A dark angel of destruction with this lie.
Not a fault my lord had.
One lie and the next will come easier,
The third will trip off the tongue.

My lord's chariot became ordinary, Krishna.
There must be a better way to serve Dharma.

Until next time then.