When a child enters the house of learning, he is met with great hardship, as if he were a mighty serpent bound and threatened by uneven poisons. Childhood itself, with its frail heart, is a time filled with endless false imaginings and fanciful desires, bringing only long-lasting suffering. Who, in their folly, would wish to eat cooked snow or seize the moon from the sky and expect happiness from such acts? For one whose inner mind is powerless to endure heat and cold, what true difference is there, O great intellect, between a child, a plant, or a tree? Children, much like birds, are always longing to soar with wings, driven by hunger and constantly preoccupied with fear and the search for food. In childhood, there is fear of teachers, of mother, of father, of people, and of older children; truly, childhood is a house of fear. For one whose hopes are continually thwarted by faults and who delights in folly, O great sage, childhood is never truly satisfying for anyone. Then, leaving behind the misfortunes of childhood, a person whose hopes remain unfulfilled ascends to the tumultuous cloud of youth, only to fall once more. There, following the restless currents of his own ever-capricious mind, the dull-witted one moves from suffering to even 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 given to the flames. Various faults, difficult to overcome, destroy such a youthful disposition; those that are visible do not, O sage. Indeed, people who are not ruined by youth—which is the seed of great hell and causes ceaseless wandering—are not ruined by anything else. He alone is called 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. Nor do I delight in youth, which is foremost for everyone, charming only for a moment, and resembles a city of the Gandharvas—beautiful but illusory. Youth pleases me not, for its pleasures last barely the time it takes an arrow to fall; it is radiant with suffering and always brings burning faults. Though sweet and pleasant, youth is also bitter, adorned with faults and defects; it is like the frothing of wine—it does not please me. False though it appears true, youth soon brings disappointment, like embracing a woman in a dream—it 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 union with a courtesan—youth does not please me. Whatever difficult undertakings there are, all bring every kind of sorrow; they 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; it gives 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. Thoughts of youth—of the beloved, her full breasts, her charms, her face—wear a person out. The good do not honor a youth afflicted by the swiftly moving thirst of desire, just as they do not value a worthless blade of dry grass. Youth is always yoked to the destruction of one blinded by pride, adorned with the pearls of faults, like the great elephant of arrogance. Youth is a new forest for the trees of anger and sorrow, whose roots run deep in the mind, bearing the serpents of faults. Know youth to be the lotus crowded with the filaments of pleasure, filled with the petals of wrong imagination, and swarming with the bees of anxious thoughts. New youth is the abode for the birds of affliction and disease, which wander along the banks of the lake of the heart, with wings of action and inaction. Full youth is an ocean, unconcerned with boundaries, for the waves of countless inert and playful ones. The wind of youth, uneven and skilled, stands ready to remove the dust of passion from all the leaves of virtue. The harsh sands of youth rise to the highest peak, making the face pale and causing distress and agitation. The exuberance of youth in men awakens a multitude of faults, cuts down the garland of virtues, and is the splendor of misdeeds. The moon of youth binds the restless bee of the mind with the dust of the body's lotus, and deludes the person.