These mighty bowmen of mine, wishing to walk that ancient road leading to heaven, will give up their lives in battle, yet still mindful of earthly glory. My child, my sons stand to these mighty bowmen just as the Pandavas do, for all of them are grandsons of Bhishma and pupils of Drona and Kripa. O Sanjaya, the few acceptable services we have been able to render these three venerable men will surely be repaid by them, out of their noble character. It is said that death in battle for a kshatriya who has taken up arms and wishes to keep the ways of the kshatriyas is indeed good and praiseworthy. And yet I weep for all who will fight against the Pandavas. Now has come that very danger which Vidura foresaw from the beginning. It seems to me, Sanjaya, that wisdom is powerless to dispel grief; rather, it is this overwhelming grief that dispels wisdom. When even those sages who are freed from all worldly cares, and who, standing apart, observe all the affairs of the universe, are yet touched by prosperity and adversity, what wonder is it that I should grieve — I, whose attachments are fixed on a thousand things: sons, kingdom, wives, grandsons, and kinsmen? What good can I expect when so terrible a danger is approaching? Reflecting on every circumstance, I see the certain ruin of the Kurus. This game of dice, it seems, is the cause of the Kurus' great peril. Alas, this sin was committed, out of temptation, by foolish Duryodhana, greedy for wealth. I believe all this is the unfavorable working of ever-fleeting Time, which affects everything. Bound to the wheel of Time as to its rim, I am unable to fly free of it. Tell me, Sanjaya, where am I to go? What am I to do, and how am I to do it? All these foolish Kauravas will be destroyed — their Time has come. Helpless, I shall have to hear the wailing of the women when all my hundred sons are slain. Oh, how can death come to me? As a blazing fire in summer, driven by the wind, burns up dry grass, so will Bhima, mace in hand, joined with Arjuna, kill everyone on my side!