Just as a river in the rainy season bursts forth with powerful, tumultuous waves, so too does the dull mind overflow with countless inner surges of excitement. Within it, endless restless waves arise, stirred by whims and fancies, much like the river’s currents set its waters in motion. This unfortunate mind is never still; it darts here and there, like a bewildered person whose behavior is erratic and unfocused. When touched, the mind can ignite a burning within, ultimately leading to its own destruction—just as a streak of lamp soot, once disturbed, turns to ash. Lacking discernment between virtue and vice, it blindly attaches itself to whatever is near, not unlike a foolish courtier clinging to a king. Through myriad actions, the mind expands ever further, just as the venom of a serpent spreads and mingles with milk. A person remains gentle and pleasant to both friends and strangers, cool as the touch of frost—until prosperity hardens him, as a storm transforms frost from gentle to harsh. Even the wise, the brave, the grateful, the refined, and the gentle—like the luster of gems soiled by a handful of dust—are tainted by prosperity. O Lord, prosperity does not bring happiness; it only leads to suffering, secretly carrying destruction within, just as poison brings death. Rare indeed are those who, though wealthy, are not despised for their birth; who, though brave, are not boastful; who, though powerful, remain impartial. This mind 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 encourages the water-lily of sorrow, the hurricane that extinguishes the lamp of true vision, the surging river of ceaseless waves. It is the mountain path shrouded in clouds of confusion, the poison that intensifies 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 eclipsing the moon of discernment, and moonlight that causes the lotus of kindness to bloom. Like a rainbow, the mind is alluring with many colors; like lightning, it is restless, arising and destroying, the refuge of dullness. It is fickle and 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 and does not remain still; like a flickering lamp flame, its movements are exceedingly hard to discern. Like a lioness, fierce and intent on battle, it can bring down even the king of elephants; like a sharp sword, cold and keen, it abides in piercing intentions. Its purpose is unshaken by others; swollen with the pride of a cruel ruler, this inauspicious fortune offers scarcely any happiness apart from sorrow. Driven out the door by the enemy of darkness, fortune returns again; having lost her place, she is shameless and becomes 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 clinging to the tip of a leaf, departing the body suddenly, 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 come to know what is to be known, who rest in the boundless state, 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 with 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 the 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 not to hold onto life that is already departing. With a restless mind, one chases after the empty span of life, but the deluded seek only suffering within, like a foal growing 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. That which, once attained, brings no further sorrow is called the state of supreme contentment—this alone is true life. Even trees live, as do beasts and birds; but he alone truly lives whose mind does not live by mere thought. Only those who live a virtuous life are truly born in this world; the rest, though not born here, are to be known as donkeys. Scripture is a burden for the undiscerning, knowledge is a burden for the passionate, the restless mind is a burden, and the body is a burden for those ignorant of the Self. Form, lifespan, mind, intellect, ego, and actions—all these are burdens for the foolish, just as a load is for the bearer, and all bring suffering. A mind never at rest is the supreme abode of calamities; lifespan is a strong seat for diseases, a nest for the birds of illness. Day by day, after casting off weariness, time ceaselessly digs the pit of birth, just as a horse’s grave is excavated. The body is drained by fierce diseases that rest in its cavities and bring burning pain, just as a forest wind is consumed by venomous serpents. It is gnawed by cruel sorrows, insignificant yet dwelling within, just as an old tree is hollowed out by termites. Surely, death watches the mouse, swollen with pride, just as a cat does—ready to devour it swiftly.