O sage, listen as I reveal my heart’s disillusionment with this body, this frail tree of flesh. Its form is weak, rooted only in the tangled net of emerging tendencies, lacking all true vigor. How can such a thing bring happiness to me? Indeed, the body is nothing but a grand house for the householder called ego. Whether it stands or collapses, what difference does its stability make to me? Within this bodily house, the senses line up like cattle in their stalls, its chambers are ever filled with restless cravings, and all its limbs are stained by passion. Such a dwelling is not desirable to me. Its cramped spaces come from the collision of bones and joints like blocks of wood, all bound together by cords of entrails—how can I take delight in such a structure? Sinews and tendons stretch across this frame, muddied by the red fluid of blood, and as age advances, whitened by the ashes of time. This too is not desirable to me. The body is filled with endless activities and postures, firmly established in vain delusion, and supported by the great pillar of false attachment. What joy is there in such a house? Cries echo within, born of suffering from hunger and thirst. Outwardly, it might seem a bed of pleasure, yet the maidservant within is scorched by futile desires. This is not desirable to me. The body is crowded with vessels and implements for sense-objects, all steeped in impurity and the alkaline poison of ignorance. How can I cherish such a thing? Its feet rest on ankles, knees serve as pillars, the head as the top, and its long, wooden-like arms reach out—yet this is not dear to me. The eyes are windows, the intellect a courtyard where thoughts play, and worry is the ever-present daughter. This house is not dear to me. The hair on the head forms a roof, the ears are beautiful moon-shaped turrets, and the long fingers project like beams. Dense hair sprouts on all its walls, and there is an empty seat as its back. Nails, bones, and navel form the foundation, the intestines are its inner wood, and the wind within produces various sounds. None of this is dear to me. The eyes are always open, windows through which the restless wind of breath constantly enters and exits. The mouth is a dreadful door, occupied by the monkey-like tongue, with visible fragments of teeth and bones—still, this is not dear to me. The skin is like smooth plaster, the body ever restless with mechanical movements, and the mind is ceaselessly dug by the sharp spade of desire. For a fleeting moment, the body shines with the glow of a smiling lamp, appearing beautiful in bliss; for another moment, it is filled with floods of 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 every affliction—how can it be dear to me? It is a hollow, empty cavity, disturbed by the senses and harsh in nature, a thicket of darkness in the heart. This forest of the body does not please me. Revered sages, I am unable to sustain this dwelling, just as one with little strength cannot lift an elephant stuck in the mud. What is the use of wealth, of the body, of desire, or of striving? In just a few days, time cuts down everything. This body, made of flesh and blood, inside and out, is destined only for destruction. Tell me, what delight can there be in it? At the moment of death, the body does not follow the soul. So, father, what faith can the wise place in such an ungrateful thing? The body wavers like the tip of a drunken elephant’s ear, as fragile as a droplet of water. Since it does not abandon me, I abandon it. Like a tender leaf, the body is shaken by the wind—frail, worn out, and thin. It is harsh and tasteless, not desirable at all. Even after eating and drinking for a long time, this tender, leaf-like body, with effort, becomes thin and hastens toward destruction. This body, made of existence and non-existence, repeatedly experiences the same pleasures and pains, yet, being of nature, it does not feel shame. Even after long enjoying power and serving the splendor of wealth, it does not attain greatness or stability—so why should it be protected? At the time of old age, it grows old; at the time of death, it dies. This body, not knowing any 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. The logs of the body, fit only for burning, are cast again and again into the ocean of worldly existence; among them, some recognize a person. Because of the long-standing, unwavering misfortune whose result is downfall, for the discerning, there is nothing to be done with this mere mass of flesh. Just as one who plunges into a pit of mud quickly grows old, so too, the frog of the body departs swiftly—no one knows where or how. All bodily undertakings are devoid of substance; the restless winds of the body travel along the path of dust, yet are not seen here by anyone. O venerable one, the movement of wind, of a lamp, or of the mind can be perceived as they go or come, but not that of the arrow of the body. Those whose hopes are bound to bodies, those whose hopes are bound to the world—may those intoxicated by the wine of delusion be condemned again and again. But those whose minds are at rest, who think, "I am not the body, nor is the body mine, nor am I this," O sage, they are the highest among men. The faults that are abundant in honor and dishonor, and in the pleasures of manifold desires, afflict the man who is bound only to the body. We have been deceived by the trick of self-conceit, by the alluring demoness whose beautiful limbs recline in attachment to the body. All discernment, poor as it is, has been led astray by this one, who is fixed in bodily attachment, whose false knowledge is like a monkey’s eye—alas, how solitary and miserable!