Seated upon a throne fashioned by the whorl of a fully blossomed lotus, I—Brahmā, the creator, the maker, the enjoyer, the great Lord of the world—survey all that exists. The foremost Vedas, replete with the full sequence of sacrificial rites and their many sub-rites, are united with Sarasvatī and Gāyatrī, and thus endowed with immense power. This sphere, traversed by the guardians of the worlds and perfected beings, shines with exuberant fortune and the adornments of the gods of heaven. The earth itself, blue and encircled like an earring for the three worlds, is beautifully decorated with mountains, islands, and vast oceans. Beneath, the cavern of Pātāla forms a deep and hidden abode for demons, danavas, and serpents—a realm crowded with those who drink nectar. Indra, mighty-armed and adorned with the thunderbolt, stands alone to protect the city of the three worlds, enjoying the offerings of purifying sacrifices. The radiant suns, with their blazing rays, seem to embrace every quarter of the heavens, shining forth in turn with abundant brilliance. The guardians of the worlds maintain their realms with unwavering conduct, upholding boundaries as steadfastly as cowherds guard their herds. All beings within this creation rise and fall, shimmer and subside in every direction, like waves upon water. I create this world and dissolve it as is fitting; abiding in myself, I become tranquil, the lord of the earth. A year has passed, an age has come to completion—creation and time have reached their period of dissolution. Today, this kalpa has ended; night has fallen for Brahmā, and I remain established in the complete Self, the Supreme Lord. Thus, with their minds absorbed in contemplation, the ten sons of Indu withdrew from all external activity, standing as if carved from stone. Having attained the sequence of the lotus seat, all trivial activities dissolved, they remained ever-seated, worn by their posture like an elephant’s goad, shining for a long time in the imagination of the lotus. In the succession of the progenitor, these ten, firm in concentration, stood devoted, their minds seized by those actions. As long as their bodies endured, withered by heat and wind, they faded like severed lotus petals in the summer. Carnivorous beasts of the forest devoured their bodies, scattered here and there like monkeys with ripe fruit. Yet, with all external objects pacified and their minds established in Brahman, they remained thus until the end of the four yugas, until the close of the kalpa. As the cycle waned, the sun blazed fiercely, and thunderous clouds poured torrents of rain; cosmic winds blew, the great ocean remained, and hosts of beings diminished—yet these ten remained just as they were. Even today, when one awakens and seeks to perceive the cycle of existence, by their own sequence, these ten remain unchanged. These, O venerable Brahman, are the ten Brāhmaṇas of Brahmā; these ten worlds of transmigration are established in the sky of the mind. Of these, I am one—the sky-temple. O Lord, the sun on earth is ever engaged in the acts of time and its divisions. Thus, O lotus-born, I have described to you the creation of the ten Brāhmaṇas, their origin in the sky—now do as you wish. All this highest world, with its various imaginations and veiled sky, arisen and enchanted by a net of rays, is entirely a play of your own mind. Having spoken thus—“O Brāhmaṇa, the sun is of Brahman,” and “O Brahman, he is mine”—the best of knowers of Brahman then fell silent. After pondering deeply, I addressed him: “O Sun, O radiant one, tell me quickly—what else should I create? Surely, there are said to be ten worlds already existing—what further purpose is there for me in creation? Tell me, O Sun. For you, O Lord, who are without desire and without intention, what use is there in creation? This creation is merely a diversion for you, O Lord of the universe. Indeed, your creation arises only from absence of desire—just as water reflects the sun, or the mind reflects an image. When all attachment to bodily form is abandoned, and passion and opinion are relinquished, the desireless mind neither craves nor rejects, O Blessed One. Then, O Lord of beings, you create this world only for your own divine play, manifesting and dissolving it again and again, just as the sun brings forth and withdraws the day. For you, it is always simply for unattached play that this is done—this world is not made from intense desire, but simply because it is to be done. You do not create the world as a personal daily activity; having abandoned obligatory action, what new result could you possibly attain? One should always perform what is to be done as it arises, without attachment—like a spotless mirror reflecting images. Just as a wise person has no desire when acting, so too, the wise have no desire even in inaction. Therefore, with a mind like dreamless sleep, free from desire, act as situations arise, whether in waking or sleeping states. O Lord, the world finds satisfaction through the creations of the mind-born sons of the moon; these creations will bring them satisfaction, but not you, O Lord of gods. You perceive these creations with the eye of the mind, not the physical eye; who, not seeing with the eye, can know that creation has arisen? By the very mind with which creation was fashioned, O Supreme Lord, that alone perceives it through the physical eye—not otherwise.