Behold the body, likened to a living tree: its hands and feet are the tender shoots, its veins the coursing streams of blood and sap. It stands with ankles as its base, offering itself as a resting place for all the birds of our actions. This tree of the body, along with its shadow, becomes a shelter for the countless living travelers who pass through life. Yet, whose is this body truly? Who can claim it as their own, and who is a stranger to it? In this world, who really belongs, and who is merely passing by? Again and again, this body is taken up, merely to bear burdens. Who, then, would ever mistake it for their true self, just as no one identifies themselves with a mere boat or a creeping vine? The body is like an empty forest, riddled with pits and hollows, and thick with countless trees of hair. Who could ever find trust or security in such a place? Within the strong fabric of the body, woven of skin, sinews, and bones, I do not dwell, like a cat hiding amid endless noise. The mind, wild as a monkey, leaps about in the jungle of worldly existence, becoming a tangled cluster of anxieties, wounded by the long-standing worm of sorrow. The body houses the serpent of craving, and is the dwelling of the crow of anger. Its smile is a flower, and the body itself a splendid tree, bearing the heavy fruits of good and evil. Its trunk is firm, its arms beautifully arrayed, hands like lovely clusters, while all its limbs, as tender shoots, tremble in the wind. Supported by the birds of the senses, the body stands with fine knees and smooth, elevated skin, casting the shade of its own lake, and welcoming the travelers of desire. On its head grows a long cluster of grass-like hair, while within its hollow interior, the aged vulture of ego makes its nest. Yet, this tree of the body is weak in form, rooted in the net of emerging tendencies, lacking vigor and bringing me no happiness. The body is but a house for the householder called ego; whether it collapses or stands firm, its stability means nothing to me, O sage. This house of the body, with its senses lined up like cattle, its chambers filled with restless cravings, and all its limbs stained by passion, is not desirable to me. It is cramped by the collision of bones and wood-like joints, bound by cords of entrails—this, too, I do not desire. Stretched with sinews and tendons, muddied by the red fluid of blood, and whitened by the ashes of old age, this dwelling does not appeal to me. Filled with endless activities and postures, established in vain delusion, and supported by the great pillar of false attachment, this house is not desirable to me. It resounds with the cries of suffering from hunger and thirst, and though it may seem delightful as a bed of pleasure, its maidservant is scorched by futile desires—this is not desirable to me. Crowded with vessels and implements of sense-objects, all filled with impurity, and steeped in the alkaline poison of ignorance, this house is not desirable to me. Its feet rest on the ankles, knees as pillars, head as the top, with long, wooden-like, sturdy arms—yet it is not dear to me. O Brahman, this house, with manifest eyes as windows, the courtyard of intellect where thoughts play, and worry as its daughter, is not dear to me. Its hair covers the head as a roof, ears as beautiful moon-shaped turrets, and long fingers as projecting beams—still, it is not dear to me. Dense hair sprouts from all its walls, an empty seat forms its back—this house is not dear to me. Its nails, bones, and navel serve as its foundation, intestines as its inner wood, and the wind produces various sounds—yet it is not dear to me. Its windows, the eyes, are always open, and the restless wind of breath is ever entering and exiting—this house is not dear to me. The mouth is a dreadful door, occupied by the monkey-like tongue, with visible fragments of teeth and bones—this is not dear to me. The skin is a smooth plaster, the body 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 flooded with radiance, yet this house of flesh is not pleasing to me. It is the abode of all diseases, a city of wrinkles and gray hairs, a forest teeming with afflictions—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, I am unable to sustain this dwelling of the body, just as one of little strength cannot lift an elephant stuck in the mud. What use is there in wealth, in the body, in desire, or in striving? In just a few days, time cuts down everything. O sage, this body, made of flesh and blood inside and out, is destined only for destruction—what delight can there be in it? At the moment of death, the body does not follow the soul. So, father, how can the wise place their trust in such an ungrateful thing? The body, wavering like the tip of a drunken elephant's ear, as fragile as a drop of water, does not abandon me—so I abandon it. Like a tender leaf, this body is shaken by the wind, frail, worn out, and thin; it is not desirable, for it is harsh and tasteless. Though it eats and drinks for a long time, this delicate, leaf-like body becomes thin with effort and hastens toward destruction. Composed of existence and non-existence, it experiences the same pleasures and pains again and again, yet, being of its own nature, it feels no shame. Even after long enjoying power and serving the splendor of wealth, the body does not attain greatness or stability—so why should it be protected? At the time of old age, it becomes old; at the time of death, it dies—this body, knowing no distinction, is the same for both the enjoyer and the destitute. In the belly of the ocean of worldly existence, in the cave of craving, this mute tortoise of a body lies asleep, even though liberation is near at hand.