The tall standard with beautiful top that stood on his car was the wreath of smoke that certainly indicated the Bhishma-fire. Arrows formed its flames, and anger was the wind that fanned it. The twang of his terrible bow and the sound of his palms formed the roar of that fire. Armour and various kinds of weapons were the homa libations that were poured into it. The huge hostile army was the heap of dry grass that was consumed by that fire. Alas, even they who had borne that fierce fire whose terrible power was represented by the mighty weapons in Bhishma's hands, have at last fallen through carelessness.