O wise one, what use is there in the pursuit of wealth, the body, desires, or ceaseless striving? For in just a few fleeting days, time comes and cuts down all things. This body, composed of flesh and blood, inside and out, is destined only for destruction—what delight can truly be found in such a thing? At the hour of death, the body does not accompany the soul on its journey; so, father, how can the wise place their trust in an ungrateful companion such as this? See how the body wavers, like the tip of a drunken elephant’s ear, fragile as a droplet of water. It clings to me, refusing to let go, so I resolve to abandon it instead. Like a tender leaf shaken by the wind, frail, worn, and thin, this body holds no real charm, for it is harsh and tasteless. Even after years of eating and drinking, this leaf-like frame, despite all efforts, only grows thinner and hastens toward its end. This body, woven of existence and non-existence, cycles again and again through the same pleasures and pains, yet, being mere nature, it knows no shame. Even after long enjoyment of power and the service of wealth’s splendor, the body never attains greatness or lasting stability—so why should it be so fiercely protected? In old age, it simply grows old; at the time of death, it dies—making no distinction between the enjoyer and the destitute. Within the vast ocean of worldly existence, in the cave of craving, this mute tortoise of a body lies asleep, oblivious, even as liberation is close at hand. Again and again, the logs of the body—fit only for burning—are cast into this ocean of worldly existence; among them, only a few awaken to recognize the true person within. Because of the long-standing, unwavering misfortune that leads only to downfall, the discerning see nothing worth doing with this mere lump 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, its destination and path unknown to any. All bodily undertakings are devoid of substance; the restless winds of the body travel unseen along the dusty path, invisible to all. O venerable one, we can perceive the movement of wind, of a lamp, or of the mind as they come and go, but never can we perceive the arrow-like flight of the body. Let those whose hopes are bound to bodies, whose hopes are bound to the world—let those intoxicated by the wine of delusion—be condemned again and again. But those whose minds are at rest, who know, “I am not the body, nor is the body mine, nor am I this”—O sage, they are truly the highest among men. The faults that abound in honor and dishonor, and in the pleasures of manifold desires, torment the one 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, weak as it is, has been led astray by this one, fixed in bodily attachment, whose false knowledge is like the fleeting glance of a monkey—alas, how solitary and miserable is such a life! He whose self is destroyed, who possesses nothing true—how strange it is 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. Within this body, subject to the distortions 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 one who seeks stability in a flash of lightning, in autumn clouds, or in the cities of the Gandharvas would trust in the body. Having abandoned this wretched body—like straw, full of every fault, ever-defeated by a succession of fragile actions, and always behaving deceitfully—I remain happily established. Even after gaining birth in the ocean of worldly existence, with its waves of burdensome duties and fleeting forms, childhood brings only suffering. In childhood arise powerlessness, calamity, craving, muteness, dullness of intellect, greed, fickleness, and misery—all these show themselves in childhood. Childhood is bondage—caught in states of anger, weeping, cruelty, and worn down by misery, like chains fastened on mighty elephants. The worries that tear the heart in childhood cut more deeply than those of death, old age, sickness, misfortune, or even youth. The behavior of children, restless and scorned by all as if they belonged to the animal realm, brings suffering even greater than death. Whose mind, wounded and torn, finds happiness in childhood—a reflection of dense ignorance, unsteady with countless thoughts? The constant fear that arises at every step in childhood, from dullness and darkness—who would willingly face such distress? A child, absorbed in play, improper amusements, vain pursuits, and false hopes, falls into the greatest delusion and a powerful misfortune. Childhood, with its confusion of thoughts, improper amusements, and unattainable desires, is fit only for discipline, not for peace. All faults, bad conduct, difficult actions, and wicked intentions reside in childhood, like crocodiles lurking in a deep pool. Those who, lacking discernment, say that childhood is delightful—may such foolish, deluded people, O Brahman, be condemned. Where the mind, restless in form, flits among distractions—how could even the sovereignty of the three worlds bring satisfaction there? For all beings, in every state, the mind becomes unsteady; but in childhood, O sage, its fickleness is tenfold. The mind is by nature unsteady, and childhood is the very peak of unsteadiness; when these two combine, dear one, who can fathom the chaos that arises within?