A deadly speaker climbed onto the dying stage,
Many sages formed a bond of love,
One and the other adoring the majestic,
Until he flew, a blade ripped.
“My god! Oh! God.” was echoed over there,
But with silence in one’s ear,
Who could dare to take that call?
It was the biggest solemn doubt of all.
“I will ask once more.”
“My sword will bite one of yours…”
Two or three or even four,
Until he responded with the utmost shore.
“My god. I am present,”
“I will follow your crescent.”
With his name out then,
He pressed mercy on Ambrose.
Then with a shutter sound,
The red master turned alive,
He showed up and asked for one more,
It caused somebody back from the door.
Then there rose another,
He wanted to show a new path,
His name suggested,
and enforced religion for rest.
He too followed the knife’s tear,
The third got up with a dare,
So, he mixed strength with us,
All to show the chapter’s lust.
My god then revealed it there,
“The knife you see wants you here,”
Then as his will may work,
a dedicated learner rose.
Then the last call took place,
And the master introduced,
a Pupil master in prose,
Thus, he made us immune to fighting foes.
He did his job,
And published this navy robe,
They brought us, the Khalsa,
And all sparrows turned scouts!
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