Again and again, the logs of the body—fit only for burning—are cast adrift upon the vast ocean of worldly existence. Amidst these countless bodies, only a few come to recognize the presence of a true person within. For the discerning, the long-standing and unwavering misfortune that leads only to downfall makes it clear: there is no purpose in clinging to this mere mass of flesh. Just as one who plunges into a pit of mud is swiftly overcome by age and decay, so too does the frog of the body depart quickly, vanishing without a trace—no one knows where it goes or how. All endeavors tied to the body are empty of true substance. The restless winds that animate the body travel unseen along the dusty path of life, never perceived by anyone. O venerable one, the movement of wind, the flickering of a lamp, or the coming and going of the mind can be sensed, yet the arrow-like flight of the body’s journey remains imperceptible. Those who bind their hopes to bodies, or to the world, are intoxicated by the wine of delusion—may such folly 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, are truly the highest among men. The one who is bound to the body is afflicted by the many faults that arise in both honor and dishonor, and in the pursuit of countless desires. We have long been deceived by the trick of self-conceit, by the alluring demoness of bodily attachment, whose beautiful limbs recline and entice us to cling to the flesh. All discernment, meager as it is, is led astray by this attachment, leaving one solitary and miserable, with false knowledge as unsteady as a monkey’s gaze. How strange it is that people are beguiled by one whose self is destroyed, who possesses nothing true, whose body is already burnt out. Like a drop of water falling from a waterfall and vanishing in only a few days, so too does this frail leaf of a body fall away, effortlessly and soon. This body, which does not endure, is like a bubble upon the ocean—drifting aimlessly, engaged in fruitless activities. In such a 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 he who seeks stability in a flash of lightning, in autumn clouds, or in the illusory cities of the Gandharvas, would put his trust in the body. Having abandoned this wretched body—like straw, full of faults, always defeated by fragile actions, and ever-deceitful—I remain happily established in myself. Even after obtaining birth in this ocean of worldly existence, with its ceaseless waves of burdensome duties and fleeting forms, childhood brings only suffering. In childhood, there arise powerlessness, calamity, craving, muteness, dullness of intellect, greed, fickleness, and misery—all of these manifest in the early years. Childhood is bondage, shackled by states of anger, weeping, cruelty, and misery—like chains fastened upon elephants. The worries that tear at the heart in childhood cut deeper than those of death, old age, sickness, misfortune, or even youth. The behavior of children, restless and scorned by all as if belonging to the animal realm, brings suffering even greater than death itself. Whose mind, torn and wounded, could ever find happiness in childhood—a time dense with ignorance and unsteady with countless thoughts? The constant fear that arises at every step in childhood, from dullness and darkness, is a distress few would willingly face. Absorbed in play, improper amusements, vain pursuits, and false hopes, the child 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 dwell in childhood, like crocodiles lurking in a deep pool. Those who, lacking discernment, claim childhood is delightful—may such foolish, deluded people, O Brahman, be condemned. Where the mind, restless and distracted, flits from one thing to another, even the sovereignty of the three worlds could not bring satisfaction. For all beings, in every state, the mind is 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, who can fathom the chaos that follows? With glances as fleeting as lightning, garlands of flames and waves, O Brahman, fickleness is learned—whether from childhood or from the mind. Childhood and the mind, in all their activities, are always seen as brothers—constantly unstable in their existence. All wicked beings, faults, and evil intentions thrive upon childhood, just as people depend upon the wealthy. If a child does not obtain something new and pleasing each day, he falls into a swoon of poisonous agitation. Little by little, he may be brought under control; little by little, he becomes disturbed. The child delights only in what is impure, like a boy from the Kauleya tribe. Constantly tearful, with a heart muddied, the child is like scorched earth soaked by rain—dull and inert within. Frightened, focused on food, miserable, and desiring whatever he sees, the child’s fickle mind and body exist only for suffering. Failing to obtain the objects he longs for in his own imagination, the weak child, his mind tormented, suffers as if his heart were cut out. O sage, the sufferings of a child—whose aims are hard to achieve and who is pulled in many directions—are like no other’s. The child, strong only in fantasy, is constantly tormented in his mind, just as a forest is scorched by the summer sun.