As long as the body stands firm, like a tree upon which the old, decrepit crane of age perches, its croaking and coughing betray the presence of disease—those serpents that coil and strike within. The crane cries out, afflicted and weary, never far from danger. Yet, even as this scene unfolds, the owl of death, ever longing for the dense, blind darkness, is seen approaching from some unknown place, swift and silent in its hunger. Just as twilight, once arisen, inevitably chases away the light and brings on darkness, so too does death pursue the body as soon as the marks of old age appear. When, from a distance, the tree of the body is seen blossoming with the signs of age, the bee of death quickly and eagerly draws near, seeking its share. An empty city, a tree with its branches lopped off, a land parched without rain—these may all appear in the world, but never does the body, battered by old age, seem quite so empty or barren. In a single instant, old age pounces, coughing and wheezing, seizing a person with the force of a vulture snatching at flesh. With eager hands, old age swiftly grasps the head and destroys the body, just as a maiden might pluck a delicate waterlily from its stalk. It hisses and rasps, rough as a dust-laden wind, shredding the worn-out body like a storm tearing at the tender leaves of a tree. Struck by old age, the body becomes ruined and faded, resembling a lotus whose beauty has been lost, covered by frost and clusters of ice. This old age rises like a pale moon, spreading from the crown of the head, and brings with it a feverish wind of coughs, much like the scent of the night-blooming lotus. When Time, the lord of affliction, sees the head pale and ripe, like a gourd dusted with the ashes of age, he devours it without mercy. Old age, with the help of the river’s daughter—the goddess of death—swiftly cuts the roots of the body-tree, causing the vital forces to falter and waver. Old age, the relentless sweeper, having consumed the vigor of youth and stoked the fire of suffering, finds its supreme delight in greedily feasting on the flesh of the body. There is nothing in this world so inauspicious as old age, the jackal of the body’s forest, howling with lamentation and sorrow. Coughs, breathlessness, and sighs, accompanied by the smoke and darkness of suffering, are the flames of old age that scorch the one caught in their grasp. Under its touch, the once slender and fresh body, white and tender as young shoots, becomes bent and drooping, like a vine heavy with fading flowers. The body, now white as camphor from the tree of old age, is swiftly lifted away in an instant by the mighty elephant of death. For death is a king, O sage, and the white fan of old age precedes him, while the banner of disease marches ahead as he draws near. Even those unconquered by enemies in battle, whose mountain fortresses were laid low, are swiftly defeated by the demoness of old age. In the body’s dwelling, whitened by the frost of age, even the pupils of the eyes can no longer move as before. This fragrant chamber of worldly existence, upon the head of the body’s stalk, is crowned by the splendor of old age, waving like a fan for all to see. When the moon of old age rises in the city of the body, the lotus of death blooms in an instant. Within the palace of the body, now smeared with the ointment of old age, helplessness, pain, and calamity stand as constant companions, masquerading as pleasures. Where old age leads the way and prevails among all creatures, what comfort can there be for one whose mind is dulled by sorrow? What is gained by clinging to this difficult and unpleasant life, even after succumbing to old age? For old age, unconquered among men, casts aside all desires, O father. The delusion of worldly existence, driven into agitation by the divisions imagined by those of little understanding, arises from the endless fabrications of the mind. How can attachment arise for the wise, as if they were caught in a netted cage? Only children try to grasp the fruit seen reflected in a mirror. Even here, the fragile notion of happiness exists, but time, like a cunning mouse, gnaws through every thread that binds it. There is nothing that time, the devourer of all, does not consume; it swallows everything born into this world, just as the submarine fire drinks up the ocean. Time, dreadful and supreme, by its universal power, stands poised to swallow all that is visible. O Lord, even the greatest are not spared for a moment; time, having devoured the endless universe, has become its very soul. Taking on forms known as ages, years, and aeons, time attains some manifestation, but its true essence remains unmanifest, pervading and abiding everywhere. Those who are delightful, those who begin auspicious deeds, even those as mighty as Mount Sumeru—all are swallowed by time, as serpents are swallowed by a young elephant. Pitiless, harsh, cruel, relentless, wretched, and base—there is nothing that time does not consume, even today. Time, intent only on devouring, eats even the mountains; though it enjoys endless streams of pleasures, this voracious one is never satisfied. It takes away, destroys, creates, consumes, and kills. In the dance of worldly existence, time acts in many forms, like an actor on a stage. It stands in division, breaking apart the seeds of beings ceaselessly, its unreal beak splitting the world as a parrot splits pomegranates. Having plucked the tender shoots of people with the horns of fate—both auspicious and inauspicious—it shines forth as the mighty elephant among all living beings. Within the vast forest of Brahma, the great tree bearing the fruit of the universe stands, enveloped by the supreme serpent, and remains ever present. That tree is filled with the bees of night, garlanded by the daylight, entwined with the vines of seasons and ages, yet it never grows weary, enduring through the endless cycles of time.