As time, the lord of affliction, gazes upon the human head—now pale and brittle like a ripe gourd, marked by the ashes of old age—he devours it without mercy. Old age, aided by the goddess of death, swiftly severs the roots of the body-tree, causing its vital forces to falter. Like a greedy sweeper, old age consumes youth and stokes the fire of suffering, delighting in its feast upon the flesh. There is nothing as inauspicious in this world as old age, the jackal of the body’s forest, howling with sorrow and lamentation. The flame of old age burns fiercely, fueled by coughs, breathlessness, sighs, and the smoke and darkness of suffering, scorching those caught in its grasp. The slender bodies of people, once white and fresh like tender shoots, bend and droop under its weight, just as flower-laden vines bow to the earth. The body, now white as camphor from the camphor-tree of old age, is swept away in an instant by the mighty elephant of death. Death, the king, approaches with the white fan of old age preceding him, and the banner of disease unfurled ahead. Even those unconquered in battle, whose fortresses stood strong, are swiftly defeated by the demoness of old age. Within the dwelling of the body, whitened by the frost of age, even the pupils of the eyes lose their power to move. In this fragrant chamber of worldly existence, atop the stalk of the body, the splendor of old age's fan shines forth. When the moonrise of old age appears in the city of the body, the lotus of death blooms in an instant. Inside the palace of the body, smeared with the ointment of old age, helplessness, pain, and calamity stand as companions of pleasure. Where old age prevails among creatures, leading the way, what comfort can there be for one whose mind is dulled? What is gained by clinging to this difficult, unpleasant life, even after succumbing to old age? For old age, unconquered among men, casts aside all desires. The delusion of worldly existence arises from endless fabrications of thought, agitated by divisions imagined by those of little understanding. How can attachment arise for the wise, trapped as if in a cage of netting? Only children yearn to eat fruit reflected in a mirror. Even here, the frail notion of happiness exists, but time, like a mouse, gnaws through every thread of it. There is nothing that time, the devourer of all, does not consume; it swallows all that is born in the world, as the submarine fire drinks the ocean. Time, dreadful and supreme, with universal power, stands ready to consume all visible existence. Not even the great ones are spared for a moment; time, having devoured the endless universe, has become its very soul. Time manifests as ages, years, and aeons, yet its true essence remains unmanifest, pervading all and abiding everywhere. Those who are delightful, those who embark on auspicious deeds, even those as weighty as Mount Sumeru—all are swallowed by time, like serpents devoured by a young elephant. Pitiless, harsh, cruel, relentless, wretched, and base—there is nothing that this time does not consume. Time, intent only on devouring, eats even mountains; though it enjoys endless streams of pleasures, it is never satisfied. It takes away, destroys, creates, eats, and kills; in the dance of worldly existence, time acts in myriad forms, like an actor on stage. It ceaselessly breaks apart the seeds of beings, dividing them in the world with its unreal beak, like a parrot splitting pomegranates. Having plucked the tender shoots of people with the horns of fate—both auspicious and inauspicious—time shines forth as the mighty elephant among the herds of living beings. Within the vast forest of Brahma, the great tree bearing the fruit of the universe stands, enveloped by the supreme serpent, enduring amid the cycles of existence. This tree is filled with the bees of night, woven garlands of daylight, and the vines of the seasons and ages; it never grows weary. It is not broken though struck, nor burned though scorched; seen yet not fully visible, it is the crown jewel of tricksters. In a single blink, time raises something up and destroys something else, spreading out like a kingdom of imagination. With its difficult and robust play, indulging in harsh pleasures, time stirs people as a cook stirs soup with a ladle. Whether grass, dust, the great Indra, Mount Sumeru, a leaf, or the ocean, time absorbs everything into itself by its expansion. Here alone are cruelty, greed, misfortune, and restlessness found in abundance. Playfully moving the sun and moon in the sky, time sports as a child in its own courtyard, tossing its toys. At the end of the aeon, time—imagined as the creator of all imaginings—shines forth, its form adorned with garlands made from the bones of all beings. As it dances wildly at the end of the aeon, Meru mountain quivers in the sky, shaken by limbs cast off in its fierce dance, like birch bark stirred by the wind. Time becomes Rudra, then Mahendra, then the Grandfather; it is Shukra, it is Vaishravana, and again, it is nothing at all. Within itself, it bears countless creations—brilliant and destroyed, rising ceaselessly—each distinct yet inseparable, like waves in the ocean.