The Axe, the Bloodshed, and the Path of Righteousness!

Upon the sacred soil, where the rivers whispered,
A child was born to Jamadagni and Renuka,
Not bound by the softness of Brahmin hands,
But forged in the tempest of Dharma's call.

Parashurama, wielding an axe not of iron,
But of penance, bestowed by Shiva's grace,
He bore the weight of the world's inequity,
A balance tilting beneath kings' arrogance.

The Kshatriyas, drunk on power's venom,
Forgot the rhythm of duty and care,
They trampled villages, they mocked the heavens,
And left the cries of the helpless unanswered.

With calm rage, he descended into their courts,
His eyes like storms that foretell no mercy.
The axe rose not for vengeance but for justice,
And the earth trembled twenty-one times.

Fields turned crimson beneath his resolve,
The rivers carried stories of his deeds,
Not of a slayer, but of a restorer,
Who carved the path for Dharma's return.

Yet the axe grew heavy, not with weight,
But with the burden of karmic retribution.
To the mountains, he turned his gaze,
Seeking solitude amidst the timeless stones.

Immortality clasped his hand without words,
A Chiranjeevi, bound not to time's decay,
He stood as a watcher, not a participant,
A teacher of wisdom, a keeper of strength.

And when Kali's shadow devours the yuga,
When Kalki emerges, the horse's hooves pounding,
It is Parashurama who shall teach the final art,
The dance of war, the hymn of righteousness.

Together, they will stand on the field of fate,
Not to destroy, but to cleanse and restore,
A world lost to the mire of deceit,
Born anew beneath Dharma's sunlit embrace.

Parashurama waits, not with longing,
But with the patience of mountains and rivers,
An eternal figure in the story of cycles,
A symbol of duty, of balance, of dharma fulfilled.