O Sage, listen as I share what has become clear to me about the nature of worldly charm and the snare of desire. The allure we perceive in women is not truly there; it is but a figment of our imagination, a mirage conjured by delusion alone. In truth, I see no real substance in this supposed beauty. Tell me, what difference exists between the fleeting delight a woman offers—often accompanied by intoxication—and the unstable pleasure of liquor? Both bring momentary joy, yet both are ultimately unreliable. Those whose minds are entangled in the charms of women, O wise one, find that, no matter how long they strive for self-restraint, awakening eludes them. Women, adorned with flowing hair and darkened eyes, possess a sharpness by nature; like flames rising from the fire of misdeeds, they consume men as easily as fire burns dry grass. Truly, those who have crossed the perilous stage of youth without succumbing to such temptations—these are the ones to be revered. They alone are the great souls, the true men on earth. Even from a distance, women may appear delightful, yet they are like beautiful but harsh and dreadful wood that feeds the fires of hell. Consider her: her eyes shine like stars through the scattered darkness of her hair, her face glows like the full moon, and her smile is a cluster of blooming lotuses. She is playful yet harsh, supremely enchanting to the mind, but she brings about the ruin of all endeavors. Sweet as flowers, delightful in form, her tender hands are like new leaves, her curved eyebrows like bees, her breasts clusters of blossoms. Her limbs, pale as flower filaments, conceal a deadly intent—they bring supreme helplessness to those who approach her, as if she were a poisonous vine. With a mere sigh, or even a breath, she can subdue a man as a serpent-charmer subdues a snake, drawing him out of his refuge as an elephant pulls a snake from its hole. Desire acts as a cunning hunter, casting nets for the simple-minded, and women are the snares that bind the limbs of men, who flutter helplessly like birds. The mind, likened to an elephant, becomes intoxicated with longing for the broad-hipped woman, and stands bound by the chain of passion—silent and powerless. Men, like fish swimming in the pond of birth and caught in the hollow of their actions, find that women are the baited hook, and bad habits the fishing line. Women are a fetter for men, just as a tether restrains a horse, a chain binds an elephant, or mud entraps a lotus. Yet, O sage, this realm of enjoyment is wondrous and varied; it reaches its highest state through its dependence on women. Still, let me be forever free from women, who are like a well-wrought casket containing all the gems of faults, and a constant chain of suffering. What use is there in a breast, an eye, a hip, or an eyebrow—when these are nothing but flesh, lacking any real substance? Here is flesh, here is blood, here are bones, O Brahman; in just a few days, a woman’s body comes to dissolution. Those women once cherished by their husbands, adorned with the softest cotton, now lie dismembered in the land of the ancestors. The face once adorned by a lover with thick ointments and budding lips, O Brahman, decays in the wilderness. Her hair, once beautiful, becomes like yak-tails hanging from the trees of the cremation ground; her bones shine like stars, scattered on the earth in a matter of days. Dust drinks her blood, flesh-eaters consume her in many ways, fire devours her skin, and her vital airs depart into the sky. Thus have I described to you the imminent fate of bodies—why, then, do you chase after delusion? This body, assembled from the five elements, merely carries taste—how can it be thought to possess intelligence? Thought, following desire, grows tall and dense like a tree, spreading bitter and sour fruits. Sometimes the mind, agitated by attachment to wealth and blinded by greed, falls into deep delusion, like a deer separated from its herd. A young man indulging in pleasure with a woman becomes utterly pitiable, bound by lust as an elephant is trapped in a pit in the Vindhya mountains. Whoever has a woman desires enjoyment; one without a woman has no basis for enjoyment. By abandoning woman, one abandons the world; and by abandoning the world, one attains happiness. I do not delight in fleeting pleasures, in difficult enjoyments, nor in the delicate sweetness of honey, O Brahman. I rejoice instead, out of fear of death, disease, and old age, and with effort I seek the supreme peace of the forest. Consider life’s stages: childhood is brief, soon consumed by youth, and then old age follows youth—see how harshly they succeed one another. Just as frost withers a lotus or a storm scatters autumn clouds, so old age wears away the body, like a river eroding a tree on its bank. Women regard a man whose body is weakened and elongated by old age as they would an elephant—without distinction. When old age seizes a person, bringing breathlessness and exhaustion, wisdom flees, just as a defeated co-wife departs. Servants, sons, wives, relatives, and friends all mock the man trembling with age, as if he were mad. Deprived of discernment, miserable, lacking virtue and vigor, the old man is approached by old age as a vulture approaches a long-standing tree. Longing only increases in old age, filled with misery and faults, burning in the heart—the sole companion of all calamities. What painful duty must I perform in the next world? Terrible fear grows in old age, impossible to escape. Who am I, wretched as I am? What do I do, and how do I even exist? I remain in silence, alone—such dejection arises in old age. Even hunger, when it arises, is met with an inability to enjoy, and my heart burns with the utter lack of strength that comes with age. Thus, O sage, have I spoken of the fleeting nature of beauty and youth, the delusions of desire, and the inevitable decline of the body. Reflect on these truths, and turn your mind toward lasting peace.