Craving is a restless force, likened to a monkey that, even when satisfied, leaps forward where passage is impossible, always desiring some new fruit. It never stays still for long, constantly moving from one pursuit to another, leaving everything in disorder. This craving strives ceaselessly, as if compelled by a divine energy, never pausing in its search. In a single moment, craving plunges to the depths, then soars to the sky, then wanders through the tangled thickets of the world’s directions—like a bee drawn to the lotus at the heart. Of all the faults that bind beings in worldly existence, craving alone brings prolonged suffering; even those who reside in palaces, surrounded by luxury, are tightly bound by its grip. Craving bestows utter dullness, blocking 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 that weaves through the stains of the mind—a rope of bondage. It comes in many colors, devoid of virtue, long, settled in impurity, empty and rooted in emptiness, like Indra’s bow—beautiful but insubstantial. Craving is the thunderbolt that destroys the harvest of virtues, ripening calamity in autumn; it is the frost that withers the lotus of prosperity, the long night that deepens darkness. She—the force of craving—is the actress in the drama of worldly existence, the bird trapped in the cage of 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 binding the elephant of delusion, the delightful banyan tree that tempts travelers on the path, and the moonlight that nourishes the water-lily of sorrow. She alone is the jewel casket holding the sufferings of old age, death, and pain; ever intoxicated, she is the playful one among afflictions and diseases. For a moment, craving shines pure and clear; in the next, she is a patch of darkness. Thirst is like a path in the sky—sometimes dense as fog, sometimes open. Let thirst depart for the sake of peace and the cessation of restless activity; it is as black as dense darkness, seeming to dispel even demons. So long as the world pursues the poisonous cholera of thirst, it remains bewildered, mute, and scattered in intention. But when freed from anxious thought, the whole world abandons sorrow; the mantra for this cholera of anxiety is simply the abandonment of anxiety itself. Thirst stirs within, taking everything—grass, stones, wood, and whatever else—with suspicion of gain, like a fish restless in a pond. This affliction, arising in the body like a disease, swiftly exposes even a profound person, just as the sun’s rays cause a lotus to open. Thirst is like a bamboo vine: empty within, knotted and long, sprouting thorns and adorned outwardly with pearls. How astonishing it is that even those of great intellect can, with the pure sword of discernment, cut through this thirst, though it is so difficult to sever. O Brahman, neither the sharpest sword, nor thunderbolts, nor blazing sparks of heated iron are as sharp as this thirst abiding 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, a hero, or the most resolute among men—thirst alone can reduce him to straw in a single moment. Thirst is like the great Vindhya forest: vast, dense, terrifying, made of clouds and dust, filled with thick darkness and fog. Though present before all and perceived in every world, thirst is difficult to discern; it stands in the world like a restless garland of waves on the surface of the milky ocean, sweet yet powerful. Now, consider the body: moist within, intricate in its structure, subject to change, full of suffering, and ever restless in the world—a source of pain alone. Though ignorant, it appears as if it knows, displaying a false sense of self; by reasoning, it may seem noble or ignoble, neither inert nor conscious. Suspended between inertness and awareness, with unsteady, uncertain hopes, the body is neither discerning nor foolish, producing only delusion. It experiences a little joy and a little distress; nothing is as pitiable as the body—lowly and devoid of virtue. Constantly subject to coming and going, the body is adorned with teeth and hair, decorated every moment by the blossoming smile of its opening flowers. Its arms are like branches, well supported by pillars of bone; its head is the large fruit resting on the seat of the neck, and its eyes are like swarms of bees. Its hands and feet are tender shoots, its veins are streams of blood and sap, it has ankles, and is the resting place for the birds of actions. This tree of the body, with its shadow, is the refuge for the multitude of living travelers; but whose own is it, whose is it another’s—who here truly belongs, and who is a stranger? When the body is repeatedly taken up merely for carrying burdens, who would ever regard it as the self, just as no one identifies themselves with a boat or a creeper? In the empty forest called the body, filled with many pits and hollows, and countless trees of hair, who could ever find trust or confidence? Within the strong fabric of the body, woven of skin, sinews, and bones, I do not remain inside like a cat, amid ceaseless noise. The monkey of the mind, grown wild in the jungle of worldly existence, takes the form of a cluster of worries, wounded by the long-term worm of sorrow. The body is a home for the serpent of craving, a dwelling made by the crow of anger; its smile is the flower, the tree is splendid, bearing the great fruits of good and evil. Its trunk is firm, its network of arms beautiful, its hands like lovely clusters, and all its limbs are tender shoots stirred by the wind. It is supported by all the birds of the senses, has fine knees and smooth, elevated skin, is adorned with the shade of its own lake, and frequented by travelers of desire. On its head grows a long cluster of grass-like hair, and its hollow interior is the nest of the aged vulture of ego. Thus, craving and the body together weave the intricate fabric of worldly existence, binding beings in suffering, delusion, and restless longing.