Thirst, it is said, is like the flame of a lamp—its very tip blackened by soot, its body stretching long with oil, glowing with brightness, yet burning to the touch. Such is the nature of thirst: no matter how wise or steadfast a person may be—even if his resolve is as unshakable as Mount Meru, even if he is a hero among men—thirst alone can reduce him to nothing, as swiftly as dry straw is consumed by fire. This thirst is likened to the great Vindhya forest: vast, dense, and terrifying, shrouded in masses of clouds and dust, filled with thick, fierce darkness and heavy fog. Though it stands before all and is present in every world, it is difficult to discern; it moves through existence like restless garlands of waves on the surface of the milky ocean—sweet to taste, yet powerful and overwhelming. Now, consider the body. Moist within, intricate in its construction, forever changing and full of suffering, it moves restlessly through the world and serves only as a source of pain. Though ignorant, it sometimes appears as though it knows, putting on a false sense of self. Through reasoning, it may seem noble or ignoble, neither fully inert nor truly conscious. Suspended between the states of dullness and awareness, the body is driven by uncertain hopes. It is neither wise nor foolish, but only brings about delusion. It experiences but a little joy and a little distress; there is nothing more pitiable than this body—so lowly and devoid of virtue. Constantly subject to coming and going, the body is adorned with teeth and hair, and each moment is decorated with the blossoming smile of its own opening flowers. Its arms stretch out like branches, supported by the pillars of bones; its head is a large fruit resting on the seat of the neck, and its eyes are like swarms of bees. The hands and feet are tender shoots, with veins as streams of blood and sap; it stands on ankles, and serves as a resting place for the birds of actions. This tree of the body, with its shadow, becomes a refuge for many living travelers. But truly, whose body is this—who can claim it as their own, or call it another's? In this world, who truly belongs, and who is a stranger? The body is taken up again and again, merely for carrying burdens—who, then, would ever mistake it for the self, just as no one identifies themselves with a boat or a creeper? In the empty forest that is 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 dwell as a cat might, amid ceaseless noise. The mind, like a monkey grown wild in the jungle of worldly existence, becomes a cluster of worries, wounded by the long-standing worm of sorrow. The body is a home for the serpent of craving, and a dwelling built by the crow of anger. Its smile is a flower, the tree is splendid, bearing the great fruits of good and evil. Its trunk is firm; its network of arms is beautiful, its hands are 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 is frequented by travelers of desire. On its head, a long cluster of grass-like hair grows, while its hollow interior is the nest of the aged vulture of ego. Yet, because it is weak in form, rooted in the net of emerging tendencies, this tree of the body lacks vigor and brings no happiness to me. The body is a great house for the householder called ego; whether it collapses or stands firm, what does its stability matter to me, O sage? This house of the body, its senses lined up like cattle, its chambers filled with restless cravings, and its limbs stained by passion, is not desirable to me. It is cramped with the collision of bones and wood-like joints, bound together by cords of entrails—this, too, is not desirable to me. Stretched with sinews and tendons, muddied by the red fluid of blood and whitened by the ashes of old age, this body is not desirable to me. Filled with endless activities and postures, rooted in vain delusion, and supported by the great pillar of false attachment, it is not desirable to me. Resounding with the cries caused by hunger and thirst, it seems delightful as a bed of pleasure, yet its maidservant is scorched by futile desires—this body is not desirable to me. Crowded with the vessels and implements of sense-objects filled with impurity, and steeped in the alkaline poison of ignorance, it is not desirable to me. With feet resting on the ankles, knees as pillars, and the head as the top, with long, sturdy, wooden-like arms, this house of the body is not dear to me. Its manifest eyes are windows, the courtyard of intellect is where thoughts play, and worry is its daughter—this is not dear to me. Its hair covers the head as a roof, the ears are beautiful moon-shaped turrets, and the long fingers are projecting beams—this house is not dear to me. Dense hair sprouts grow on all its walls, and an empty seat forms its back—this is not dear to me. Nails, bones, and the navel serve as its foundation, the intestines as its inner wood, and the wind produces various sounds within—this house is not dear to me. Its windows, the eyes, are always open, while the restless wind of breath constantly enters and exits—this is not dear to me. The mouth is a dreadful door, occupied by the monkey-like tongue and visible fragments of teeth and bones—this is not dear to me. Its skin is a smooth plaster, ever restless with mechanical movements, and the mind is ceaselessly dug by the sharp spade of desire—this is not dear to me. For a moment, my body shines with the glow of a smiling lamp, appearing beautiful in bliss; for a moment, it is filled with floods of radiance—yet this house of flesh is not pleasing to me. My body is the abode of all diseases, a city of wrinkles and gray hairs, a forest teeming with every affliction; it is not dear to me. It is a hollow, empty cavity, disturbed by the senses and harsh, a thicket of darkness in the heart—this body-forest is not pleasing to me. O revered sages, just as one with little strength cannot lift an elephant mired in mud, so too am I unable to sustain this dwelling of the body.