Craving, O Brahman, is like a worn-out lute whose discordant strings enclose the treasury of the mind in a web of sloth and dullness, never allowing happiness to shine forth. Ever impure and filled with the madness of bitterness, this craving is long and slender, dense with attachment—a creeping vine that winds through the dark ravines of our being. Desire itself is empty, bringing no joy, utterly fruitless despite its lofty rise. It is inauspicious and cruel, withered like a faded blossom. Even when the mind is not drawn to it, desire relentlessly pursues everything, yet achieves nothing—like an aged courtesan who charms but finds no fulfillment. In the grand dance of worldly existence, filled with its many flavors and stages of enjoyment, desire is like an old dancer, past her prime, still spinning on the stage. As one climbs the tree of old age, desire bears a chain of fruits—downfall and calamity—spreading like a poisonous creeper through the long jungle of worldly life. Where it cannot succeed, it grows frantic, dancing without joy, like a weary dancer whose movements no longer delight. It flutters intensely in the mist of confusion, but subsides when the light of clarity appears; in floods of sorrow, it settles, restless as a peahen seeking shelter. Dull, turbulent, and heavy, craving remains empty within for a long time, finding delight only for a fleeting moment, like a wave in the rainy season of longing. It leaves behind what is lost and moves on, flitting from one tree to another, from one person to the next, like a bird in restless flight. Even when satisfied, it pushes ahead where no path exists, still desiring fruit, never staying in one place—the restless monkey of craving. Having done one thing, it moves on to the next; everything is left in disorder as craving strives ceaselessly, as if driven by some unseen divine force. In a single moment, it can plunge to the depths or soar to the sky, or wander through the thickets of all directions, like a bee drawn to the lotus of the heart. Of all faults in worldly existence, craving alone brings prolonged suffering. Even those who dwell in palaces are bound by it, confined more tightly than by any wall. It bestows utter dullness and is the greatest obstacle to true vision—a garland of clouds heavy with the haze of delusion. For all creatures engaged in worldly affairs, craving is the thread that weaves through the stains of the mind, the very rope of bondage. Craving appears in many colors, lacking virtue, long and settled in impurity. Empty and rooted in emptiness, it is like Indra’s bow—beautiful yet illusory. It serves as the thunderbolt that destroys the harvest of virtues, the autumn frost that withers prosperity’s lotus, and the long night that deepens darkness. She—craving—is the actress in the drama of worldly existence, the bird caged in the body, the deer wandering the forest of the mind, the lute that plays the music of longing. She is the wave upon the ocean of activity, the chain binding the elephant of delusion, the delightful banyan tree along the path, and the moonlight that nourishes the water-lily of sorrow. Craving alone is the jewel casket holding the sufferings of old age, death, and pain. Ever intoxicated, she is the playful companion of afflictions and disease. For a moment, she may appear pure and clear; the next, she is a patch of darkness—thirst is a path in the sky, sometimes dense as fog, sometimes vanishing into nothing. Let this thirst depart for the sake of peace and the cessation of restless activity, for it is as dark as the blackest night, as if meant to dispel demons. The world remains bewildered, mute, and scattered in its intentions so long as it pursues the poisonous cholera of thirst. But when freed from anxious thought, the world abandons sorrow; the true mantra for the disease of anxiety is simply the abandonment of anxiety. Thirst stirs within, ever suspicious of gain, grasping at grass, stones, wood, and whatever else appears—like a fish darting in a pond. This affliction, arising in the body like a disease, can swiftly bring even the wise to exposure, just as the sun’s rays cause the lotus to open. Thirst is like a bamboo vine: empty within, full of knots, long, sprouting thorns, and outwardly adorned with pearls. How astonishing it is that even those of great intellect can, with the pure sword of discernment, sever this thirst, though it is so difficult to cut. O Brahman, neither the sharpest sword, nor thunderbolts, nor blazing iron can match the sharpness of the thirst that abides in the heart. Thirst is like the flame of a lamp—its tip blackened with soot, its body long with oil, bright yet burning to the touch. Even a wise man as steadfast as Mount Meru, even a hero, even the most resolute—thirst alone can reduce them to straw in a single moment. It is like the great Vindhya forest: vast, dense, terrifying, filled with clouds, dust, thick darkness, and heavy fog. Thirst, though present before all and perceived in every world, is difficult to discern; it stands in the world like a restless garland of waves on the surface of the milky ocean—sweet, yet overwhelmingly powerful. Now, consider this body: moist within, intricate in its structure, ever subject to change and full of suffering, it moves restlessly in the world and is only a source of pain. Though ignorant, it masquerades as one who knows, displaying a false sense of self; by reasoning, it may appear noble or ignoble, neither inert nor truly conscious. Suspended between states of inertness and awareness, with unsteady and uncertain hopes, it is neither discerning nor foolish, but only produces delusion. It experiences a little joy and a little distress; there is nothing as pitiable as the body—lowly and devoid of virtue. Constantly subject to coming and going, it is adorned with teeth and hair, decorated every moment with the blossoming smile of its opening flowers. Its arms are like branches, supported by the pillars of bones; its head is the large fruit resting upon the seat of the neck, and its eyes are like swarms of bees. Thus is the body, thus is craving—woven together in the restless dance of worldly existence.