This world, so dependent on the workings of the mind, appears before us as an object to be enjoyed. Yet, when we look closely, even the mind itself seems insubstantial, almost unreal. How, then, are we so thoroughly deluded by these appearances? Truly, we are pitiable—lost in unreality, our minds bewildered and confused, like deer wandering in a distant forest, forever chasing the water of a mirage that is never there. No one has sold us into this condition, and yet we stand as if we have been bartered away. Even with knowledge of the truth, delusion still binds us all. Are these worldly enjoyments, which we pursue so eagerly, really so rare or precious? Out of ignorance, we remain ensnared by our own rigid ideas, our own self-created bonds. For so long, in our unknowing, we have wasted our lives—fallen deep into delusion, bewildered like innocent animals trapped at the bottom of a pit. What use, then, is kingship to me? What value do pleasures hold? Who am I, and what is all this that has come to be? Let whatever is false remain false—who, indeed, has ever truly gained anything lasting from this world? Reflecting in this way, O Brahman, I have lost all interest in every state of being. Just as a weary traveler loses all desire for the desert, so too have I lost any longing for these fleeting things. Therefore, venerable one, tell me: what is it that truly perishes, what is it that is born again, and what is it that grows and changes in this world? Old age, death, birth, and even prosperity—all these revolve endlessly, appearing and disappearing in their turn. By these ever-shifting states, we and others are worn down, brought to decay like mountain trees battered by the relentless wind. People, as if unconscious, are kept moving by the winds called breath, making noise in vain like hollow reeds blown by the wind. This thought torments me: how will this suffering ever cease? I am like an old tree, scorched by a fierce fire burning within its hollow. Even though my heart is sealed like stone by the pain of worldly existence, I do not weep, for fear of my own people holds back my tears. My face is empty, my actions hollow, my tears dry and devoid of feeling; only discernment, dwelling quietly in my heart, observes me in solitude. I am greatly bewildered when I recall the state that is both being and non-being, just as a fortunate man, though far from poverty, is yet troubled by thoughts of the world. Wealth, devoted to separation, deludes the mind, destroys virtue, and brings only a net of sorrow. Twisted with heaps of anxieties, it brings me no joy; wives and homes, once obtained, become dreadful traps. My mind, O sage, finds no satisfaction. It is bound by endless reflections on the many faults and the fragile causes of all things, like a wild elephant chained and restless. At every turn, at every hour, especially in the darkness of night, the clever thieves of the senses, skilled in plundering discernment, roam the world. Tell me, O wise ones, who among us today are the true warriors in this inner battle? This fortune, O sage, has been devised in this world merely for diversion, yet it brings only confusion and is surely the source of misfortune. Just as a river in the rainy season pours forth abundant, powerful, and tumultuous waves, so too does the dull mind overflow with countless inner surges of excitement. Many restless waves arise within it, stirred by countless whims and fancies, just as a river’s waves are set in motion by its own currents. This unfortunate mind does not stay fixed in one place; like a bewildered person with erratic behavior, it runs here and there. When touched, it produces an intense burning within and ultimately brings about its own destruction, like a streak of lamp soot turning into ash. Lacking discernment of virtue or vice, it blindly clings to whatever is near, like a foolish courtier attached to the king. Through various actions, the mind expands further and further, just as the venom of a serpent spreads and mixes even into milk. A person remains gentle and pleasant to both friends and strangers, like the cool touch of frost, until prosperity hardens him, just as a storm turns frost harsh. Even the wise, the brave, the grateful, the refined, and the gentle—like gems soiled by a handful of dust—are tainted by prosperity. O Lord, prosperity does not bring happiness; it only leads to suffering. It secretly carries destruction, just as poison brings death. Three kinds of men are rare in this world: one who is wealthy yet not despised for his birth, one who is brave yet not boastful, and one who is impartial and powerful. This world is a perilous, dense cave for those who suffer—a vast forest in the Vindhya mountains for the mighty elephants of deep delusion. It is the night that closes the lotus of noble deeds, the moonlight that nourishes the water-lily of sorrow, the hurricane that extinguishes the lamp of true vision, the surging river of endless waves. It is the mountain path shrouded in clouds of confusion, the poison that increases despair, the field of doubts, the pit for those who indulge in evil pleasures. It is the frost that withers the creepers of dispassion, the night for the owls of distortion, the jaws of Rahu for the moon of discernment, the moonlight for the lotus of kindness. Like a rainbow, it is alluring with many colors; restless like lightning, it arises and destroys, and is the refuge of dullness. It is fickle, devoid of true delight, like a mongoose among mongooses—a fierce mirage that causes separation and longing. Like a wave, it takes a single form for a moment, never remaining still; like a flickering lamp flame, its movements are exceedingly hard to discern. Like a lioness, fierce and intent on battle, bringing down the king of elephants; like a sharp sword, cold and keen, it abides in piercing intentions. With a purpose unshaken by others, swollen with the pride of a cruel ruler, I see in this inauspicious fortune scarcely any happiness apart from sorrow. Driven out the door by the enemy of darkness, fortune returns again and again; alas, having lost her place, she is shameless and the refuge of the wicked. Thus, O wise one, the world and the mind together weave a web of delusion and sorrow, and I long to be free from their bonds.