There exists a state that is truly attainable—a state where, once reached, no further sorrow can touch the heart. This is supreme contentment, and only this is genuine life. For even trees, beasts, and birds live, but true living belongs only to one whose mind is not bound by mere thought. In this world, only those who walk the path of virtue are truly born. The rest, though they may appear here, are no better than donkeys. For the undiscerning, scripture becomes a burden; for the passionate, knowledge weighs heavy; for the restless, the mind itself is a load; 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 they bring suffering. A mind that never rests becomes the supreme abode of calamities; lifespan is but a strong seat for diseases, a nesting place for the birds of illness. Day by day, as weariness is cast off, time steadily and ceaselessly digs the pit of birth, much like the grave for a horse is excavated. Fierce diseases rest within the cavities of the body, draining it and causing burning pain, just as a forest wind is consumed by venomous serpents. The body is gnawed from within by cruel sorrows, insignificant yet persistent, like an old tree eaten away by termites. Death watches over the proud, swollen mouse, just as a cat does, ready to swiftly devour it. Just as food is consumed by hunger and old age, so too is the body, filled with pride and qualities but ultimately empty and powerless, gradually worn away. In only a few days, once its charm is recognized and gone, youth is abandoned, much like the virtuous abandon the wicked. Form is always sought by death, the friend of destruction and constant companion of old age, just as a bird is pursued by a skilled fowler. This life, unstable and robbed of happiness by old age, is always abandoned by both the best and the ordinary; nothing in this world is so devoid of virtue and so claimed by death as this fleeting lifespan. Delusion arises and grows in vain; I am fearful of this false, illusory ego, the enemy that is so difficult to overcome. It is because of ego that the storehouse of faults torments the utterly miserable; from ego arises the manifold forms of worldly existence. Misfortunes and diseases spring from ego; even effort is born of ego—ego is the great delusion. Relying on this ancient enemy, ego, I neither eat nor drink, let alone enjoy pleasures, O sage. The long rope of worldly existence, which deludes the mind, is woven by the fault of ego, like a snare set by a hunter. All the 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 autumn cloud of knowledge, I abandon ego. I am not Rama, nor do I have desire, nor is my mind attached to objects; I wish to remain peaceful within my own self, just as a sage. Whatever I have enjoyed, done, or acquired 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, wealth lies in freedom from ego. Having abandoned ego, O sage, with a peaceful mind, I remain free from agitation, even amidst the flood of enjoyments, at the fragile foundation. As long as the cloud of ego expands, so long does the cluster of thirst for objects blossom. But when dense ego becomes 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. In the vast cave of the body, the lion of dense ego roars mightily, pervading the entire world. Strung together with the threads of craving, extending through countless births, a necklace of pearls is made and worn at the throat by the fierce hook of ego. Sons, wives, and families—these are spread out here like a web, lacking any true mantra, by this difficult enemy called ego. When the notion “I am” is completely wiped away, then, by that very act, all wicked afflictions are truly eradicated. When the ocean of “I am” becomes calm and perfectly tranquil, the mist of confusion that clouds the mind gradually disappears. Now, since I am free of ego, yet languishing here in ignorance and sorrow, O sage, please tell me whatever is appropriate. I do not take refuge in that impermanent, inner abode of all misfortunes, which is unbound and not endowed with the highest virtue; O great one, earnestly instruct me, for I remain in the utterly painful state of ego-identity. The mind, worn out by faults, though engaged in noble deeds and honored by the virtuous, is as restless and unsteady as a feather blown by the wind. It is greatly agitated, running here and there in vain, becoming ever more distant and dejected, like a villager lost in a foreign town. It attains nothing anywhere, even when great wealth is acquired; it never reaches fulfillment within, like a basket never filled with water. The mind is always empty, ensnared by the net of desires; it does not attain even a little satisfaction, like a deer separated from its herd. Possessing a nature as fleeting as waves and worn away by afflictions, the mind does not attain contentment, even for a moment, having abandoned peace.