Listen, O wise one, to the nature of life and fortune as revealed by the scriptures. Fortune, alluring and quick to capture the mind, can be attained even by the miserly, yet she is fickle and breaks away in an instant. Her form, born from a brood of serpents, emerges from hidden depths like a flowering creeper rising from a pit, only to vanish as swiftly as she appears. Life itself is as fragile as a drop of water trembling on the tip of a leaf, poised to fall at any moment. It departs the body suddenly, abandoning it without warning, just as a madman might forsake his dwelling. For those whose minds are worn thin by attachment to sensory pleasures and the poison of desire, and who lack true discernment of the Self, life becomes nothing but a source of toil and exhaustion. But for those who have realized what is worth knowing, who rest in the boundless peace beyond being and non-being, life brings true happiness. We, whose forms are limited and whose resolve is fixed, O sage, find no satisfaction in this life, tossed about as it is by the storm-clouds of worldly existence. One could sooner bind the wind, divide the sky, or weave together the waves, than place trust in the uncertain span of life. Life passes by like an autumn cloud, unattached like the flame of a lamp, and restless as a wave upon the sea. I may try to grasp the reflection of the moon in a wave, or seize a cluster of lightning in a cloud, but I cannot hold on to life that is already departing. With a mind that is ever restless, one pursues the empty span of life; but the deluded only seek suffering within, like a foal growing in the womb of a barren mule. In the ocean of creation, the froth of worldly existence rises and falls ceaselessly. O king, the taste of life in this body-vine no longer appeals to me. That which is attainable and, once found, brings no further sorrow—that alone is the state of supreme contentment, and that alone is true life. Even trees, beasts, and birds live, but only he truly lives whose mind is not driven by ceaseless thoughts. Those alone are truly born in this world who live a virtuous life; as for the rest, who are not truly born here, know them to be like donkeys. For the undiscerning, scripture is a burden; for the passionate, knowledge is a burden; for the restless, the mind is a burden; and for those ignorant of the Self, the body is a burden. Form, lifespan, mind, intellect, ego, and actions—all these are burdens for the foolish, just as a heavy load is for its bearer, and all bring suffering. A mind that never finds rest becomes the supreme seat of calamities; lifespan is a stronghold for diseases, a nest for the birds of illness. Day by day, as weariness is cast off, time unceasingly digs the pit of birth, just as a grave is prepared for a horse. The body is consumed by fierce diseases that dwell within its cavities and bring burning pain, like a forest wind devoured by venomous serpents. It is gnawed from within by cruel sorrows, small yet persistent, just as an old tree is hollowed out by termites. Death watches the body, swollen with pride, just as a cat observes a mouse, ready to devour it in an instant. The body, filled with pride and other qualities, yet empty and powerless, is gradually worn away, just as food is consumed by hunger and old age. In only a few days, once its charm is recognized and gone, youth is abandoned, just as the virtuous abandon the wicked. 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 alike. In this world, there is nothing so devoid of virtue and so claimed by death as this fleeting lifespan. Delusion arises in vain and grows in vain; I am afraid of this false, illusory ego, the enemy that is so difficult 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, from ego arise diseases, and even effort itself is born of ego—ego is the great delusion. Depending 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, just like a snare laid by a hunter. All the long, harsh, and great sufferings that arise are born from ego; yet they vanish like the leaves of the khadira tree. With the moon of tranquility, the lion-faced thunderbolt of virtue, and the autumnal cloud of knowledge, I abandon ego. I am not Rama, nor do I possess desire, nor is my mind attached to objects; I wish only to remain peaceful within my own Self, just as a sage does. Whatever I have enjoyed, done, or taken under the sway of ego, all of that is truly unreal; reality is only the absence of ego. If the thought “I am” exists, O Brahman, then in adversity I am sorrowful, and in prosperity I am happy; therefore, the true wealth lies in freedom from ego. Having abandoned ego, O sage, with a peaceful mind, I remain unshaken, even in the flood of enjoyments, though their foundation is fragile. O Brahman, as long as the cloud of ego expands, so long does the cluster of thirst for objects blossom. But when the dense fog of ego has become peaceful, the vine of craving, deprived of its support, swiftly vanishes—like the flame of a lamp that has been extinguished. Within the great mountain of ego, the mind—like a wild, intoxicated elephant—roars with thunderous crashes, just as clouds resound with thunder. Here, in the vast cave of the body, the lion of dense ego roars mightily, and by this, the entire world is pervaded. Strung together with the threads of craving, extending through countless births, a necklace of pearls is fashioned and worn at the throat by the fierce hook of ego. Thus is life, thus is fortune, and thus is the endless snare of ego that binds beings to suffering, until wisdom dawns and peace prevails.