From the fertile soil of the mind, countless joys and sorrows arise, much like forests springing from rich earth. Yet, when discernment thins the mind, these emotions surely subside. O sage, it is here, in the hope of conquering all qualities, that I have awakened to face my greatest adversary—the mind itself. With inner agitation gone, I find no delight in fortune, which, though vast, is inert and impure, much like clouds obscuring the moon. In the sky of consciousness, during the night of inner darkness, the relentless thirst for more moves about as rows of birds—faults fluttering in formation. The burning pain within, matured and intense, dries me up with anxiety, as mud is parched by the blazing sun. In the great forest of my mind, thick with the darkness of delusion, the demon of hope, intoxicated, dances wildly in emptiness. Anxiety blossoms within me, woven from the mist of rajas, shining with golden hues like clusters of the ashoka flower. Enough of this inner confusion! Craving devours all intentions, arising with poisonous delight, swelling like a wave in the ocean. It surges with powerful tumult, flowing down the mountain of my body; this river of craving, restless and ever-changing, moves with ceaseless force. When I try to restrain it, it is as futile as dry grass before a storm. My mind, like the chataka bird, is swept away by impure thoughts. Whatever noble quality I try to embrace is cut down by craving, 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 a cycle of anxious thoughts. Unable to reach my own true ground, I am bewildered in the net of thoughts, much like birds ensnared in a net. Father, I am burned by the fire of craving, so much so that even nectar offers no relief. My mind, mad with craving, is like a horse swiftly wandering to the ends of the directions, going far and returning again and again. Bound to dullness, craving moves ceaselessly, ever agitated, 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 led by a rope. In this world, the ever-pulling 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 and soft to the touch, yet hinting at poisonous imbalance, craving burns even when barely touched, like a black serpent. 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, never shining in happiness. Ever exceedingly impure, filled with the madness of bitterness, long, slender, 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 and stages of 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, 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, it remains empty within for long; 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. Even when satisfied, it steps forward where passage is impossible; it still desires fruit. For a long time, it does not remain in one place—the restless monkey of craving. Having done this, it moves on to that; everything is disorderly. Craving strives ceaselessly, as if driven by some divine force. In a moment, it descends to the depths; in a moment, it rises to the sky; in a moment, it wanders through the thickets of directions—the bee of craving drawn to the lotus of the heart. Of all the faults in worldly existence, craving alone brings prolonged suffering; even those dwelling within palaces are bound by it in the tightest confinement. Craving bestows utter dullness, the supreme obstruction to true vision; it is a garland of clouds, dense with the haze of delusion. For all creatures engaged in worldly affairs, craving is the thread woven through the stains of the mind—the rope of bondage. Craving is of many colors, lacking virtue, long and settled in impurity; empty, rooted in emptiness, it is like Indra’s bow in its nature. It is the thunderbolt for the harvest of virtues, ripened in autumn’s calamity; the frost for the lotus of prosperity, the long night for the darknesses. She is the actress in the drama of worldly existence, the bird in the cage of the body, the deer in the forest of the mind, and the lute of love's music. She is the wave on the ocean of activity, the chain of delusion's elephant, the delightful banyan tree along the path, and the moonlight for the water-lily of sorrow.