O revered Brahman, hear my heartfelt confession. My mind, unsteady and inert, has tossed me about like a riverside tree swept away by the current’s force. Empty and restless, my thoughts have cast me far from peace, like a blade of grass carried by a fierce wind. Though I have always yearned to cross the vast ocean of worldly existence, my impure mind blocks my passage, just as a flood is held back by a dam. Bound tightly, I feel as if descending into darkness, encircled by my own mind, like a log trapped in a well by a rope. My mind, falsely magnified and sharp with endless reasoning, has seized me as a goblin snatches a child. O Brahman, it burns hotter than fire, stands more unyielding than a mountain, is harder than diamond, and fiercely uncontrollable. The mind leaps upon objects of action like a bird swooping down on bait, only to withdraw in a moment, much as a child abandons a toy. O Father, this mind—dull yet restless—moves in wide, swirling patterns, like a sea full of serpents, carrying me far from my center. Even drinking up the vast oceans, leaping over Mount Sumeru, or consuming fire would be easier than mastering the mind. Indeed, the mind is the cause of all things; when it exists, the three worlds exist. When it is dissolved, the world itself dissolves. Therefore, it must be treated with great care. From the mind arise hundreds of joys and sorrows, just as forests spring from fertile ground; when, through discernment, the mind is thinned, these surely subside, O sage. Here, where the hope of conquering all qualities is bound by greatness, I have arisen to conquer this enemy—the mind. With inner agitation gone, I no longer delight in fortune, which is vast, inert, and impure, like a mass of clouds obscuring the moon. In the sky of consciousness, during the night of inner darkness, relentless thirst moves about as rows of birds of fault. By the burning pain within, whose essence is matured, I am dried up by anxiety, like mud under the blazing sun. In the great forest of my mind, thick with the darkness of delusion, the demon of hope, intoxicated, wildly dances in emptiness. The mist woven of rajas, shining with golden hues, causes my anxiety to blossom like clusters of ashoka flowers. Enough of this inner confusion! Craving, which devours all intentions, has arisen with poisonous delight, swelling like a wave in the ocean. It surges with the tumult of powerful waves, flowing down the mountain of my body; this river of craving, full of restless waves, moves with ever-changing forms. When I try to restrain its force, it is like dry grass before a storm; my mind, the chataka bird, is carried away by impure thoughts. Whatever noble quality or virtue I try to embrace, craving cuts it down, just as a mouse severs the strings of a lute. Like an old leaf in water, dry grass in the wind, or an autumn cloud in the sky, I am tossed about in the cycle of anxious thoughts. Unable to reach my own true ground, I am bewildered in the net of thoughts, just as birds are ensnared in a net. Father, I am burned by the fire called craving, and I do not expect relief even from nectar. My mind, the horse mad with craving, swiftly wanders to the ends of the directions, going far from here and returning again and again. Craving, bound to dullness, moves ceaselessly up and down; ever agitated and knotted, like a fierce rope on a wheel without a hub. Within the body, a person is drawn along by craving, tightly bound and constantly disturbed, just as a bull is swiftly led by a rope. In this world, craving for sons, wives, and family weaves a net among people, just as a fowler casts snares for birds. Craving, like a dark night, deludes even the wise, blinds even the seeing, and wearies even the joyful. Crooked, soft to the touch, yet hinting at poison’s imbalance, craving is like a black serpent that burns even when barely touched. Like a black demoness, craving tears the hearts of men, weaves illusions, brings misfortune, and is ever wretched. Craving, like a worn-out lute, encloses the treasury of the mind with a web of sloth and dullness, and never shines in happiness, O Brahman. Ever impure, filled with the madness of bitterness, long and dense with attachment, craving is a creeper in a dark ravine. Desire is empty, brings no joy, utterly fruitless though it rises high; it is inauspicious, cruel, and withered like a faded blossom. Even when the mind is not drawn to it, desire pursues everything, yet attains no result, like an aged courtesan. In the grand dance of worldly existence, filled with various flavors, among the stages of worldly enjoyment, desire is like an old dancer. Having climbed the tree of old age, bearing a chain of fruits of downfall and calamity, in the long jungle of worldly life, desire spreads like a poisonous creeper. Where it cannot succeed, even there it takes up a frantic pace; desire dances without joy, like an aged dancer. It flutters intensely in the mist, but subsides when light arrives; in floods of sorrow, desire settles like a restless peahen. Dull, turbulent, and heavy, for long it remains empty within; for a moment it finds delight, like a wave in the rainy season of desire. Leaving behind what is lost and staying, it moves from one tree to another; from one person to another, desire goes like a bird in flight. Thus, O noble one, I lay bare the struggles of my mind and craving, ever restless, ever elusive, ever weaving webs of sorrow and illusion.