People move through life as if unconscious, driven by the winds of breath—voices echoing out in vain, like hollow reeds played upon by the wind. I am tormented by the thought: how will this suffering ever end? It burns within me like a fierce fire consuming the hollow of an old tree. Though my heart is hardened, sealed like stone by the pain of worldly existence, I do not weep. My tears are restrained, held back by the fear of what my own people might think. My face is empty, my actions hollow, and my tears dry—devoid of feeling. Only discernment, quietly dwelling in my heart, observes me in solitude. I am greatly bewildered when I recall that state beyond being and non-being, just as a fortunate man, far from poverty, is still troubled by worldly thoughts. Wealth, devoted as it is to separation, deludes the mind, destroys virtues, and casts a net of sorrow. Wealth, twisted with heaps of anxieties, brings me no joy. Wives and homes—once so eagerly obtained—reveal themselves as dreadful traps. My mind finds no satisfaction, O sage, bound as it is by endless reflections on the faults and the ever-fragile causes of things, just like a wild elephant chained. At every turn, at every hour, even 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 true warriors in this 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 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 remain fixed in one place; like a bewildered person with erratic behavior, it runs here and there. When touched, it produces intense burning within, ultimately bringing about its own destruction, like a streak of lamp soot turning into ash. Without discernment of virtue or vice, it blindly clings to whatever is nearby, like a foolish courtier attached to the king. Through various actions, it expands further and further, just as the venom of a serpent spreads and mixes 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: 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 is indeed 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 for the lotus of noble deeds, the moonlight for the water-lily of sorrow, the hurricane for the lamp of true vision, the surging river of waves. It is the mountain path of 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 for 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 delight, like a mongoose among mongooses; a fierce mirage that causes separation and longing. Like a wave, taking a single form for a moment, never remaining still; like a flickering lamp flame, her 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, she abides in piercing intentions. With her 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; alas, having lost her place, she is shameless and the refuge of the wicked. Charming, she draws the mind’s activity, yet is attained only by the miserly and breaks in an instant; fortune, whose body is born from a brood of serpents, arises from a pit like a creeper of flowers. Life itself is as fragile as a drop of water hanging from the tip of a leaf, departing the body suddenly and abandoning it like a madman. For those whose minds are worn out by attachment to sense-objects and the poison of desire, who lack mature self-discernment, life is merely a cause of toil. But for those who have known what is to be known, who rest in the boundless state, who are at peace with both being and non-being, life brings happiness. We, whose forms are limited and whose resolve is firmly settled, O sage, are not content in this life amid the flashes of the storm-cloud of worldly existence. It is possible to bind the wind, to divide the sky, or to weave together waves—but to place trust in life is not possible. Life is fleeting like an autumn cloud, unattached like a lamp’s flame, and restless like a wave. I may strive to grasp the reflection of the moon in a wave, or a cluster of lightning in a cloud, but I cannot hold onto life that is already departing. With a restless mind, one pursues the empty span of life, but the deluded person seeks only suffering within, like a foal in the womb of a she-mule. In the ocean of creation, the froth of worldly existence rises and falls; O king, the taste of life in the vine of the body does not appeal to me.