In the heart of the Vindhya mountains, there lies a perilous, dense cave—a vast forest where those who suffer wander, and where the mighty elephants of deep delusion roam, lost in their confusion. This cave is not just a place; it is a symbol of the night that closes the lotus of noble deeds, casting darkness over virtue. It is moonlight only for the water-lily of sorrow, nurturing grief rather than joy. For the lamp of true vision, it is a hurricane, extinguishing clarity and wisdom. It is a surging river, full of waves, sweeping away those who seek stability. This place is the mountain path shrouded in the clouds of confusion, a poison that increases despair and a field overgrown with doubts. It is a pit for those who indulge in evil pleasures, swallowing them whole. Dispassion, which should grow like a creeper, finds only frost here; distortion, which thrives in darkness, finds its night. Discernment, as radiant as the moon, is caught in the jaws of Rahu, eclipsed and hidden. Yet, for the lotus of kindness, this cave offers moonlight, nurturing compassion amid adversity. Like a rainbow, this delusive place is alluring, displaying many colors that captivate the eye. Restless as lightning, it arises and destroys, becoming a refuge for dullness and lethargy. Fickle and devoid of true delight, it is like a mongoose among mongooses—never at peace, always causing separation and longing, like a fierce mirage. Just as a wave takes form for a moment and disappears, so does this delusion; it never remains still, its movements as hard to discern as the flicker of a lamp’s flame. It is fierce, like a lioness intent on battle, bringing down the king of elephants. Like a sharp, cold sword, it abides in piercing intentions, cutting through resolve. Her purpose remains unshaken, swollen with the pride of a cruel ruler. In this inauspicious fortune, happiness is scarce; sorrow prevails. Driven out by the enemy of darkness, fortune returns again, shameless and the refuge of the wicked, having lost her place. 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—beautiful yet dangerous. Life itself is as fragile as a drop of water hanging from the tip of a leaf. It departs suddenly, abandoning the body without warning, like a madman fleeing. For those whose minds are worn out by attachment to sense-objects and poisoned by desire, who lack mature self-discernment, life is merely a cause of toil and suffering. But for those who have discovered 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, are not content in this life, which flashes like storm-clouds in worldly existence. It is easier to bind the wind, divide the sky, or weave together waves than to place trust in life. Life is fleeting, like an autumn cloud; unattached, like a lamp’s flame; restless, like a wave. One may strive to grasp the reflection of the moon in water, or a cluster of lightning in a cloud, but not to hold onto life that is already departing. With a restless mind, people pursue the empty span of life, but the deluded seek only suffering within, like a foal in the womb of a she-mule—destined for hardship. In the ocean of creation, the froth of worldly existence rises and falls; the taste of life in the vine of the body does not appeal to me. That which is attainable and, once attained, brings no further sorrow, is called the state of supreme contentment; that alone is true life. Even trees live, and so 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, who are 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 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 gradually and 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, bringing burning pain, just as a forest wind is consumed by venomous serpents. It is gnawed by cruel sorrows, insignificant yet dwelling within, like an old tree eaten by termites. Death observes the mouse, swollen with pride, just as a cat does, ready to devour it swiftly. Food is consumed by hunger and old age, and so too is the body, filled with pride and other qualities, yet empty and powerless, gradually worn away. In just a few days, once its charm is recognized and gone, youth is abandoned, as a wicked person is by the virtuous. Form is always desired by death, the friend of destruction and constant companion of old age, just as a bird is sought by a skilled fowler. This life, unstable and robbed of happiness by old age, is always abandoned by both the best and the ordinary; in this world, nothing is so devoid of virtue and so claimed by death as this lifespan. Delusion arises in vain and grows in vain; I am afraid of this false, illusory ego, the enemy that is hard to overcome. It is only because of ego that the storehouse of faults torments the utterly miserable; because of ego, the manifold forms of worldly existence arise. From ego come misfortunes and diseases; even effort is due to ego—ego is the great delusion. Relying on that ego, the supreme and ancient enemy, I neither eat nor drink water, let alone enjoy pleasures, O sage. The long rope of worldly existence, which deludes my mind, is woven by the fault of ego, like a snare set by a hunter. All the long, harsh, and great sufferings that arise are born from ego; they vanish like the leaves of the khadira tree. Thus, in this world, delusion, fleeting life, and ego weave a tapestry of sorrow and suffering. Only through virtue, discernment, and contentment does true happiness arise, and only those who transcend these burdens are truly alive.