Listen, O noble one, to the secret of how wisdom enters the heart. When words are spoken with apt similes and gentle, charming phrases, they touch the listener deeply—spreading through the heart as smoothly as oil flows in water. Such speech, without doubt, pervades and enlivens the listener’s being. But when words lack simile, are harsh or obscure, hurried and ill-formed, they cannot enter the heart. Instead, they perish, just as clarified butter poured into ashes is lost and wasted. Know that all stories and teachings in this world, all knowledge that is declared or explained, shines forth most brightly when shared through examples and analogies—just as the moon’s radiant beams quickly illuminate the night. Long ago, Brahma spoke to me about creation. Now, as you ask, O Raghava, I will recount what I learned. Once, I questioned the blessed lotus-born Brahma: “O Brahman, how do these groups of creations arise?” He explained that it is the mind alone that manifests in this way, appearing as if real—like the restless, ever-changing patterns that dance across the surface of a lake, whirling in endless forms. At the dawn of a new day, when one awakens with the desire to create the world, listen, my dear, to what once happened in a previous cycle. Once, at the end of the cosmic day, all creation was withdrawn. I remained alone, tranquil and focused, guiding the night in solitude. When the night ended, I awoke and performed the sacred twilight rites. Then I turned my gaze to the vast sky to observe the beings. As I looked, I saw the sky—neither dark nor light, but limitless, empty, and utterly expansive. With a pure and subtle mind, I resolved: “I shall imagine this creation.” Fixing my attention on the sky, I saw, spread out before me, great worlds—each existing separately, enduring without interruption. In those worlds, unseen by each other, were Brahma, Vishnu, and Indra, surrounded by gods, asuras, gandharvas, kinnaras, serpents, and humans. There stood the shining mountains—Meru, Mandara, Kailasa, Mahendra, Malaya—and other peaks, along with continents, islands, rivers, and the ten regions, all radiant and bright. In those realms, like reflections, were the ten lotus-born ones, each dwelling upon a lotus stalk and riding a swan-chariot, established in their own place. In each of these ten, separate from the others, arose rows of brilliant beings, blazing with flames, long and radiant, illuminating the worlds with their splendor. Great rivers flowed there, oceans resounded, the hot rays of the sun shone forth, and mighty winds surged through the sky. In the heavens, the gods played; on earth, humans rejoiced; and in the netherworlds, asuras and serpents dwelled happily. All the seasons, adorned with auspicious qualities, were woven into the wheel of time. As their appointed moments arrived, they adorned the earth with abundant fruits. The established ways of auspicious and inauspicious conduct matured across the horizons, bringing the fruits of heaven and hell as their time came. All living beings, desiring either enjoyment or liberation, strove according to their wishes, each in proper order and at the right time. The seven worlds, continents, oceans, and mountains, too, observing the cycle’s end, resounded with mighty reverberations. In some places, night had arrived; elsewhere, it lingered steadfastly. In the mountain valleys, darkness stood, moving swiftly like a flash of light. Within the blue lotus of the sky, the honeybee of the wandering cloud roamed; the network of stars shone forth, filling the heavens like clusters of stamens. At the end of the cycle, dense mist rested upon the peaks of Meru, while pure cotton lay in the hollows of silk-cotton trees, as if in bone cavities. The girdle of the Lokāloka mountain, roaring with the tumult of battling oceans, was adorned with fragments of darkness and sapphire, shining with its own jewels. The earth, bearing the low, humming cries of creatures, stood amid the expanse of worlds like a woman secluded in the inner chambers of a palace. The splendors of the seasons, adorned by rows of white days and the streaks of night between, appeared like garlands of lotuses and water-lilies. The many realms of earth, each with its own divisions and inhabitants, glowed with a reddish hue, like clusters of pomegranates in a grove. The triple-flowing, triple-path rivers, moving upward and downward, shimmered as pure as the crescent moon, resembling the sacred thread of the universe. Here and there, things decayed and arose again—like lightning-flowers blooming on the creepers of the directions, or new clouds sprouting at the end of the wind. The paths of ocean, earth, and sky were adorned with rows of celestial cities, gardens, and flying palaces, all shining brilliantly. In other worlds, gods, demons, humans, and serpents gathered in crowds, humming like gnats swarming on fig trees. Time, marked by ages, aeons, moments, instants, and fractions, flowed on unnoticed, ever awaiting the destruction of all things. As I beheld all this with my own pure and supreme radiance, I was filled with astonishment and wondered, “What is this? How can this be? How is it that with these fleshly eyes I see nothing at all, yet in the sky of the mind I perceive this incomparable web of illusion?” After observing for a long time with my mind from that sky, I summoned the Sun from that net of worlds and questioned him. “Come, Lord of gods, O radiant Sun, of great brilliance! Welcome to you,” I said, honoring him. Then I asked, “Who are you? How did this one world or these many worlds come into being? If you know, O Blessed One, please tell me this, O faultless one.” Thus addressed, the Sun recognized me. Bowing with respect, he replied to me with words beyond reproach.