Fallen Vanir Poem by Sushruta Mishra

Those who cried and wailed by the bludgeoning of chance,
who withered and perished with the relentless desert sands.
Some prayed and screamed when the stakes were high.
Others wiggled in agony and wished they would die.

There always is, an unflinching soul, someone
who picks up the fallen sword, armoured and,
in battle who turns and speaks words of gore death,
and glory in the same cold breath, someone.

Who glanced back and saw, through his shield,
hundreds of quivering shallow eyes, pale and hopeless,
and dashed forward with murderous vengeance.
Swords clashed, synced with thunder's applause.

It was meant not to be, childish fairy tales.
He, who promised them victory, paid with his life,
through ages, he lies dead, and his armour rusts.
Come rain, come winds, blown to dusts.