Listen, O sage, to the nature of childhood and youth as it unfolds in this world. The glances of women, as sudden and brilliant as flashes of lightning, the garlands of flames, and the rolling waves—all these teach the mind the lesson of fickleness, whether it arises in childhood or springs from the mind itself. Indeed, childhood and the mind are ever found to be like brothers, ever unstable, never abiding in one state for long. Upon this foundation, all wicked beings, all faults, and evil intentions thrive and grow, just as people depend upon the wealthy for support. If a child fails to obtain something new and delightful each day, he is plunged into a state of poisonous agitation, restless and disturbed. Little by little, he is brought under control, yet just as easily, he is unsettled again. The child finds joy only in what is impure, like a boy from the Kauleya tribe, delighting in what is base. Ever tearful, with a muddied heart, the child is like scorched earth suddenly soaked by rain—dull and inert within. Frightened, obsessed with food, miserable, and desiring whatever he sees, his fickle mind and body seem made only for suffering. When he fails to grasp the objects his imagination conjures, his weak mind is tormented, and he suffers as though his very heart were being torn apart. O sage, the sufferings of a child—whose wishes are hard to fulfill and who is pulled in many directions—are truly unlike any other’s. Strong only in fantasy, the child’s mind is constantly tormented, just as a forest is scorched by the burning sun of summer. When he enters the house of learning, he faces great hardship, like a mighty serpent bound and threatened by many poisons. Childhood, with its feeble heart, is filled with endless false imaginings and fanciful desires, bringing only long and lasting suffering. Who, in their right mind, would wish to eat cooked snow or seize the moon from the sky and believe that happiness would come from it? For one whose inner mind cannot even ward off heat and cold, what difference is there, O great intellect, between a child, a plant, or a tree? Children, like hungry birds, always long to fly with wings, driven by hunger and constantly preoccupied with fear and food. In childhood, there is fear of teachers, of mother, of father, of people, and of older children—childhood is truly a house of fear. For one whose hopes are thwarted by every kind of fault, who delights in folly, childhood is never truly satisfying for anyone. Then, leaving behind the miseries of childhood, the person whose hopes have been frustrated ascends to the tumultuous cloud of youth, only to fall again. There, driven by the restless tendencies of his ever-capricious mind, he moves from suffering to greater suffering. Overpowered by the demon of desire, which dwells in the cave of his own mind and creates endless confusion, he becomes helpless. The mind, unable to resist, offers itself to restless thoughts, just as a child is helplessly given to the flames. Many subtle faults, difficult to overcome, destroy such a youthful disposition; the obvious ones do not, O sage. Those who are not ruined by youth—which is the seed of great hell and causes ceaseless wandering—are ruined by nothing else. He alone is wise who has crossed the dreadful realm of youth, filled with countless stories and adorned with a multitude of events. I find no delight in youth, which flashes like lightning, roars with restless clouds, and shines only for a moment. I do not delight in youth, which is full of various whirlpools, stuck in mud, dull in nature, and terrifying with its fragile waves. I do not delight in youth, which is foremost for everyone, seemingly charming for a moment, but like the illusory city of the Gandharvas. I do not delight in youth, which gives pleasure only for the briefest moment, is radiant with suffering, and always brings burning faults. Sweet and pleasant, yet bitter, adorned with faults and defects—like the frothing of wine—youth does not please me. False, though it appears true, it soon brings disappointment, like embracing a woman in a dream—youth does not please me. Flickering for a moment, built on illusion, like a wheel drawn in the air—youth does not please me. Soft, swelling, and outwardly grand, yet empty within and wounded in an instant, like an autumn cloud—youth does not please me. Delighting only in the moment, lacking true substance within, like the fleeting union with a courtesan—youth does not please me. All the difficult undertakings and every kind of sorrow gather in youth, like great calamities at their end. Even the Blessed Lord fears the night of youth’s ignorance, which brings darkness to the heart and takes on a dreadful form. This bewilderment of youth makes one forget good conduct and brings confusion of mind, giving rise to delusion in the highest degree. A living being in youth is burned by the fierce fire in the heart, born from separation from the beloved, just as a tree is consumed by a forest fire. Even if the mind is vast, clear, and pure in youth, it becomes tainted, like a river growing turbid in the rainy season. A river, though terrifying with dense waves, can be restrained; but not the inner thirst, made unsteady by youth and agitated by craving. It is then that one thinks: "That is the beloved, those are her full breasts, those are her charms, that is her face"—and through such thoughts of youth, a person becomes worn out and spent. Thus, O sage, is the nature of childhood and youth—ever restless, ever unsatisfying, ever filled with suffering and delusion.