these piteous lamentations: "Oh, son of my wretched self, O thou that
wast in prowess equal to thy father, O child, how couldst thou perish,
going to battle! Alas, how doth that face of thine which resembleth the
blue lotus and is graced with beautiful teeth and excellent eyes, now
seem, now that, O child, it is covered with battle's dust! Without doubt,
thee so brave and unreturning, thee fallen on the field, with beautiful
head and neck and arms, with broad chest, low belly, thy limbs decked
with ornaments, thee that art endued with beautiful eyes, thee that art
mangled with weapon wounds, thee all creatures are, without doubt,
beholding as the rising moon! Alas, thou whose bed used to be overlaid
with the whitest and costliest sheets, alas, deserving as thou art of
every luxury, how dost thou sleep today on the bare earth, thy body
pierced with arrows? That hero of mighty arms who used of old to be
waited upon by the foremost of beautiful women, alas, how can he, fallen
on the field of battle, pass his time now in the company of jackals! He
who of old was praised with hymns by singers and bards and panegyrists,
alas, he is today greeted by fierce and yelling cannibals and beasts of
prey. By whom, alas, hast thou been helplessly slain when thou hadst the
Pandavas, O lord, and all the Panchalas, for thy protectors? Oh son, O
sinless one, I am not yet gratified with looking at thee. Wretched as I
am, it is evident that I shall have to go to Yama's abode. When again
shall I cast my eyes on that face of thine, adorned, with large eyes and
beautiful locks that smooth face without pimples, from which sweet words
and exquisite fragrance constantly issued? Fie on the strength of
Bhimasena, on the bowmanship of Partha, on the prowess of the Vrishni
heroes, and the might of the Panchalas! Fie on the Kaikeyas, the Chedis,
the Matsyas, and the Srinjayas, they that could not protect thee, O hero,
while engaged in battle! I behold the earth today to be vacant and
cheerless. Without seeing my Abhimanyu, my eyes are troubled with
affliction. Thou wast the sister's son of Vasudeva, the son of the
wielder of Gandiva, and thyself, a hero and an Atiratha. Alas, how shall
I behold the slain! Alas, O hero, thou hast been to me like a treasure in
a dream that is seen and lost. Oh, every thing human is as transitory as
a bubble of water. This thy young wife is overwhelmed with grief on
account of the evil that hath befallen thee. Alas, how shal