Resting delicately at the tip of a stalk, the needle finds itself in the restless wind, surrounded by the incessant buzzing of flies. The air, once moist and gentle, has grown harsh and dry, and the needle wavers on the slender branches of fingers, uncertain and unanchored. It journeys through a world streaked with filth and shadow, slipping into the pits and wounds that mark the fingers it serves. There, amidst sweat, dew, and the corrupted fluids of the body, it climbs the mountain of joints and finds shelter in anthill-like crevices. Sometimes, the needle lies forgotten in dust, or is cleansed in water, or lost in the haze of confusion. Its nails, rough as a serpent’s skin, betray its age. It may rest on the path beside a well, fearful of the river’s force and plagued by lice that crawl upon it. It grows sparse, dry, and cracked, marked by patches and muddy pools, swept by cold winds as it lies exposed in the middle of the path. The needle bears lice, stains, and blood—its mouth marked by nails and filled with blood. Pressed by the force of thumb and axle, it is dragged everywhere by the one who wields it. Adorned with various designs, the needle moves through towns like a painted cloth, growing weary from its endless coming and going, until it rests for a long while. In every city, burdened with bundles of threads and tools, it journeys on. When it reaches the forest of palms, it is turned about by the oxen, changed by every hand and circumstance. Sometimes, hidden, the needle slips a little from the hand to rest. Worn out by the constant pull of thread through its mouth, it eventually breaks apart somewhere, its strength spent. Though hard and pressed to the ear, it does not pierce, for when the mind is dull, even the sharpest thing loses its edge. That weary needle, bent by the needle of the mind itself, wanders here and there, yet like a heavy stone in water, it does not sink, though it bows downward. The movement of transmigration, driven by the essence of the mind, spreads to the farthest reaches, just as a blade of grass is swept along by the wind. With its mouth, the needle releases the subtle thread to the very end, weaving swiftly in the beautiful loom by the effort of the higher force—like a woman giving birth with all her heart. Just as the juice of the higher filling causes the needle to open up the heart of the cloth widely, so too does it continually emit the subtle thread’s end within the loom. Even things long worn out are restored without deliberation by sharp things; so a tattered cloth is instantly made whole by the needle. With rays of thread drawn out, the needle finds the heart of the cloth; and by that higher filling, brilliance is quickly woven, like the rays of the sun. Suddenly, by that established form—the exhausted filling—the demon-needle is tormented in the heart, suffering as if from the result of karma. It makes a piercing sound, like the hoof of an animal, when slightly moved; and even by its own nature, when employed, it brings about fatigue. The needle moves the thread through the cloth in fourfold piercing, and the long thread of impression through the body, just as sensation moves within. Driven swiftly, the needle runs through the cloth, its face unseen—just as wicked people strike at the vital points, hidden from view. Threaded with a skein of yarn, the sharp-eyed needle surveys its task, pondering, “How shall I pierce this?”—for this is the desire of the keen. Whether in silk or linen garments, the sharp needle passes through equally; who but a fool would disregard the difference between virtue and vice? Pressed between thumb and finger, the needle bears a shining thread and, as if spitting out an endless cord, gazes ahead into its work. Yet, because of its sharp and heartless nature, even when threaded, it does not easily enter soft things, moving forward sluggishly among objects. Though exceedingly sharp, if threaded through the mouth of a donkey, the needle—unpiercing and heartless—remains unfortunate, like a princess denied her due. Without harming others, the sharp one seeks no path; after piercing, the needle is restrained and hangs from the ear-lobe, its work done. Fallen from the hand, it lies beautifully in the cotton, like a friend resting among friends; who would not delight in companionship that matches their own nature? Who among ordinary people, whose minds are clouded by delusion, wishes to abandon those who are equal to themselves? But once abandoned, the inner-moving force becomes restless in the iron chamber, stirred by the bellows’ winds, eager to rise into the sky. Situated in the flow of prāṇa and apāna, moving within the lotus of the heart, the power of suffering—extremely fierce—arises, like the force of the living soul. By the opposition of samāna, it moves with samāna; by the reversal of udāna, it moves with udāna. Situated in vyāna, the generator of disease, it circulates through the essence of all the limbs, causing pain in the heart and throat, swelling, discoloration, and madness. Most often found in the hand of the cleaner, asleep in the hollow of the nails, it delights solely in piercing the fingertip of a child’s hand. Entering the foot and spreading through the blood and channels of excretion, it is excessively satisfied with even the most trivial food. It lies in the muddy cavity, face down for a long time; having attained what it desires, who would abandon such a dwelling place? One whose mind is seized by cruelty displays it in many ways; for even in celebrations, the base find pleasure in conflict. A person who treasures a coin hidden in a box esteems it greatly; for the marvel of ego is difficult to uproot from beings. With a mind captivated by a pair of dice, a person brings about their own ruin; yet, in pursuit of self-interest, folly does not arise in the clever. By the breaking of a thread in cloth, I quickly obtain the ultimate destruction; thus, this thought arises, utterly pure. A needle, when set aside, gathers dirt even without friction; in the absence of external piercing, disease arises within it. Subtle, barely visible, the piercer can bring forgetfulness in an instant; sharp, penetrating, and cruel, it acts like a divine needle—silent, swift, and unfathomable.