Listen, O noble one, as I share the reflection that arose in my heart regarding this body. I see this body as a mere house, its hair covering the head like a roof, the ears standing as beautiful, moon-shaped turrets, and the long fingers jutting out like projecting beams—yet, for all its clever construction, this dwelling is not dear to me. I look again and find the body’s walls sprouting dense hair, its seat empty and hollow, and still, I find nothing to love. Its very foundation is made of nails, bones, and the navel; its inner wood is the tangled intestines, and within it, the wind moves, producing all manner of sounds—still, I do not cherish this house. The windows of the eyes are always open, and the restless wind of breath rushes in and out, but this brings me no joy. The mouth stands as a dreadful door, occupied by the monkey-like tongue, with fragments of teeth and bones visible—how can this be dear to me? The skin is but a smooth plaster over this structure, and the body is ever restless with mechanical movements. The mind within is ceaselessly dug by the sharp spade of desire. Even when, for a moment, the body glows with the radiance of a smiling lamp and appears beautiful in bliss, or when floods of radiance fill it, this house of flesh does not please me. It is the abode of all diseases, a city of wrinkles and gray hairs, a forest teeming with every affliction—how could it be dear? At its core, 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 is not pleasing. O revered sages, I am unable to sustain this dwelling of the body, just as one with little strength cannot lift an elephant stuck in the mud. What use is there in wealth, the body, desire, or striving? In a few days, time cuts down everything. 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, what faith can the wise place in such an ungrateful thing? The body wavers like the tip of a drunken elephant’s ear, fragile as a droplet of water. It does not abandon me, so I abandon it. Like a tender leaf shaken by the wind, frail, worn, and thin, it is not desirable, being harsh and tasteless. Even after much eating and drinking, this tender, leaf-like body becomes thin with effort and hastens toward destruction. It is made of existence and non-existence, repeatedly experiencing the same pleasures and pains, yet, being of its own nature, it feels no shame. After long enjoying power and serving the splendor of wealth, the body does not attain greatness or stability—why should it be protected? In old age, it becomes old; at death, it dies—this body, unable to distinguish, 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, only a few recognize a person. Because of long-standing, unwavering misfortune whose result is downfall, the discerning see 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 does the frog of the body depart swiftly—none know where or how. All bodily undertakings are devoid of substance; the restless winds of the body travel along the path of dust, yet no one sees them here. O venerable one, the movement of wind, of a lamp, or of the mind can be perceived as they go or come, but never the movement of the arrow of the body. Those whose hopes are bound to bodies, 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 abound 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, fixed in bodily attachment, whose false knowledge is like a monkey’s eye—alas, how solitary and miserable! He whose self is destroyed and who possesses nothing true—how strange that people are deceived by one whose body is already burnt out. Just as a drop of water from a waterfall falls away in only a few days, so too does this frail body-leaf drop off effortlessly. This body, which does not last long, is like a bubble on the ocean; it moves about in vain, engaged in fruitless activities. In this body, subject to the distortion of false knowledge and the confusion of dream-like delusion, and clearly perishable, I do not place my trust even for a moment, O twice-born one. Only he who has determined stability in a flash of lightning, in autumn clouds, or in the cities of the Gandharvas—he alone trusts in the body. Having abandoned this wretched body, which is like straw, full of every fault, ever-defeated by the succession of fragile actions, and always behaving deceitfully, I remain happily established. Even after obtaining birth in the ocean of worldly existence, with its waves of burdensome duties and its fleeting forms, childhood brings only suffering. In childhood arise powerlessness, calamity, craving, muteness, dullness of intellect, greed, fickleness, and misery—all these manifest in childhood. Childhood is bondage in states of anger, weeping, cruelty, and when worn down by misery—like chains fastened on elephants. The worries that tear the heart in childhood do not cut so deeply in death, old age, sickness, misfortune, or even youth. Thus, reflecting on the body and the stages of life, I see no delight or stability in them, and I turn my mind away from their fleeting and sorrowful nature.