Wisdom Beyond Time and War

In the twilight of an age forgotten,
amidst the shifting sands of fate,
a child was born, not of womb, but of will,
Kripa, son of Sharadvan, marked by destiny.

Left upon the sacred earth, twin cries rang,
a sister beside him, bound by unseen threads.
A king’s hand lifted them from the dust,
and the Kuru bloodline embraced the nameless.

Steel and scripture, bow and dharma,
he learned not as a warrior, nor as a saint,
but as both, the guardian of balance,
the teacher who stood above the tides of war.

Princes gathered, eager, restless;
his voice shaped their hands, their arrows,
their battles yet unwritten, their fates yet sealed,
as he watched, knowing what must come.

When dharma cracked beneath ambition,
when brothers clashed, unyielding, blind,
he stood, not for victory, nor for loss,
but for the duty of a soldier’s path.

Kurukshetra burned, the sky drank blood,
kin turned to ash in the fire of time.
And when silence fell upon the ruined plain,
Kripacharya remained, untouched by death.

Not a man, not a god;
an immortal tethered to a dying age.
He watched as Parikshit rose from the dust,
as thrones crumbled, as history forgot its own tears.

Yet the wheel turns, the age decays,
Kali walks, whispering poison into men’s hearts.
But beyond the veil of time, he waits,
Kripa, the undying witness.

When Kalki rides, sword ablaze,
when the dark shall tremble at the dawn,
he will stand, as he always has,
not as a warrior, nor a king,
but as Dharma’s final keeper.