Like an old leaf adrift in water, or dry grass caught in the restless wind, or an autumn cloud tossed through the sky, so too am I swept along in the endless cycle of anxious thoughts. Unable to find my own true ground, I wander bewildered within a net of thoughts, just as birds are ensnared and helpless in a fowler’s trap. Father, I am scorched by the fire of craving—so intense is this burning that I do not expect relief, not even from the nectar of the gods. My mind, wild and untamed like a horse maddened by desire, runs far and wide, returning again and again, swiftly galloping to the ends of every direction. This craving, bound to dullness, moves ceaselessly up and down, always agitated and knotted—like a fierce rope spinning on a wheel without a hub. Within this very body, a person is dragged along by craving, tightly bound and constantly disturbed, just as a bull is led swiftly by a rope through its nose. In this world, an ever-pulling craving for sons, wives, and family weaves a net among people, just as a skillful fowler casts snares for unsuspecting birds. Craving, like a dark and moonless night, deludes even the wise, blinds those who can see, and wearies even the joyful. Crooked and soft to the touch, yet hinting at hidden poison, craving is like a black serpent: even the slightest contact brings burning pain. It is like a black demoness, tearing at the hearts of men, weaving illusions, bringing misfortune, and forever steeped in wretchedness. Like a worn-out lute, craving enshrouds the treasury of the mind with a web of sloth and dullness, never shining in happiness, O Brahman. Ever impure and wild with the madness of bitterness, long, slender, and dense with attachment, craving grows like a creeper in a dark ravine. Desire itself is empty, brings no joy, and is 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 chases after everything, yet never gains a thing—like an aged courtesan who attracts no more suitors. In the grand dance of worldly existence, filled with countless flavors and shifting stages of enjoyment, desire is like an old dancer, weary but unwilling to leave the stage. Having climbed the tree of old age, bearing a chain of fruits that bring only downfall and calamity, desire spreads through the long jungle of worldly life like a poisonous creeper. Even where it cannot succeed, desire takes up a frantic pace, dancing without joy, like a dancer long past her prime. It flutters intensely in the fog, but subsides when the light of understanding arrives; in floods of sorrow, desire settles like a restless peahen. Dull, turbulent, and heavy, it remains empty within for ages, finding delight for only a moment—like a wave in the brief rainy season of longing. Leaving behind what is lost and what remains, desire moves from one tree to another, from one person to another, like a bird in restless flight. Even when satisfied, it presses onward where no passage exists, always seeking new fruit and never resting—the restless monkey of craving. Having finished one pursuit, it leaps to the next, leaving everything in disorder. Craving strives ceaselessly, as if driven by some divine force. In a single moment, it plunges to the depths; in the next, it soars to the sky; then again, it wanders through the thickets of every direction, like a bee drawn to the lotus of the heart. Of all faults in worldly existence, craving alone brings the longest suffering; even those who dwell in palaces are bound tightly by its chains. It bestows utter dullness, the supreme obstruction to true vision; craving is a garland of clouds, dense with the haze of delusion. For all creatures engaged in the affairs of the world, craving is the thread that weaves through the stains of the mind—the rope of bondage. Craving is of many colors, lacking any virtue, long and settled in impurity; empty and rooted in emptiness, it is like Indra’s bow—appearing solid, yet insubstantial. It is the thunderbolt that destroys the harvest of virtues, ripened in the calamities of autumn; the frost that withers the lotus of prosperity, and the long night that deepens all darkness. She is the actress in the drama of worldly existence, the bird caged in the body, the deer lost in the forest of the mind, and the lute that plays the music of love. She is the wave on the ocean of activity, the chain that binds the elephant of delusion, the delightful banyan tree that tempts along the path, and the moonlight that nourishes the water-lily of sorrow. She alone is the jewel casket of the sufferings of old age, death, and pain; ever intoxicated, she is the playful one among afflictions and diseases. For a moment she appears pure and clear, and in the next, she is a patch of darkness; thirst is like a path in the sky—sometimes dense as fog, sometimes vanishing into nothingness. Let this thirst depart for the sake of peace and the cessation of restless activity; it is as black as dense darkness, as if born to dispel the light of gods and sages. This world remains bewildered, silent, and scattered in intention, so long as it pursues the poisonous cholera of thirst. But when freed from anxious thought, the whole world abandons sorrow; the true mantra for the disease of anxiety is simply the abandonment of anxiety itself. Taking everything—grass, stones, wood, and more—with the suspicion of gain, thirst stirs restlessly within, like a fish darting in a pond. The affliction of thirst, arising in the body like a disease, swiftly brings even the wise and profound to exposure, just as the sun’s rays cause a lotus to open. Thirst is like a bamboo vine: empty within, full of knots, long, with sprouts and thorns, always adorned with beads of dew—so it appears outwardly. How astonishing it is, O Brahman, that even those of great intellect can, with the pure sword of discernment, cut through this thirst, though it is so difficult to sever. For neither the edge of a sword, nor thunderbolts, nor blazing sparks of heated iron are as sharp as this thirst that abides in the heart.