In this fragrant chamber of worldly existence, atop the slender stalk of the body, the splendor of old age unfolds like a fan, its presence unmistakable. As the moon of old age rises over the city of the body, O sage, the lotus of death blooms in an instant, its petals opening without warning. Within this palace of flesh, now smeared with the ointment of age, helplessness, pain, and calamity become constant companions, masquerading as sources of pleasure. Wherever old age leads the way among creatures, what comfort can there be for one whose mind is dulled by its touch? What is truly gained by clinging to this difficult, unpleasant life, even as old age overtakes us? For this unconquerable force sweeps away all desires, O father, leaving nothing untouched among men. The delusion of worldly existence, agitated by the countless divisions imagined by those of little understanding, arises from the endless fabrications of thought. How, then, can attachment arise for the wise, as if they were caught in a net? Only children reach for fruit reflected in a mirror, mistaking illusion for substance. Even here, the fragile notion of happiness exists; yet time, like a relentless mouse, gnaws through every thread of it. There is nothing that escapes time’s appetite; it devours all that is born, swallowing the world as the submarine fire drinks the ocean’s waters. Dreadful and supreme, time stands poised to consume all visible existence by its universal power. Not even the great ones are spared, not for a moment; time, having devoured the endless universe, has become its very soul. Manifesting as ages, years, and aeons, time takes on form, yet its true essence remains unmanifest, pervading all, abiding everywhere. Those who are delightful, those who embark on auspicious deeds, even those as mighty as Mount Sumeru—all are swallowed by time, as serpents are by a young elephant. Pitiless, harsh, cruel, relentless, and base—there is nothing that this time does not consume, even now. With an insatiable hunger, time devours even mountains, never satisfied despite endless pleasures. It takes away, destroys, creates, consumes, and kills; in the dance of worldly existence, time acts in myriad forms, like an actor upon a stage. Ceaselessly, it breaks apart the seeds of beings, dividing them in the world with its unreal beak, like a parrot splitting open pomegranates. Plucking the tender shoots of people with the horns of fate, both auspicious and inauspicious, time shines forth as the mighty elephant among living beings. Within the vast forest of Brahma, the great tree bearing the fruit of the universe stands, enveloped by the supreme serpent, remaining ever-present. This tree is filled with the bees of night, garlands of daylight, and the vines of seasons and ages, yet it never wearies. It is not broken though struck, nor burned though scorched; it is seen but never wholly grasped, O sage—the crown jewel of tricksters. In the blink of an eye, time raises one thing and destroys another, spreading out like a kingdom of imagination. With difficult and robust play, indulging in harsh pleasures, it stirs people as a cook stirs soup with a ladle. Whether grass, dust, Indra himself, Mount Sumeru, a leaf, or the ocean, time is ready to absorb all into itself by its own expansion. Here, cruelty is abundant, greed established, misfortune present, and restlessness ever found. Playfully moving the sun and moon across the sky, time sports as a child in its own courtyard, tossing its toys at will. 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 the great cycle ends, time dances wildly, shaking Meru mountain in the sky with the limbs cast off in its fierce dance, as birch bark is stirred by the wind. It becomes Rudra, then Mahendra, then the Grandfather; it is Shukra, it is Vaishravana, and again, it is nothing at all. Within itself, time bears countless creations—brilliant and destroyed, rising ceaselessly—each distinct yet inseparable, like waves in the ocean. Standing among the trees named after great aeons, it shakes down the ripe fruits—gods and demons—gathered in clusters. With vast strides, it moves among swarms of universes, buzzing like restless gnats, tossing them about. With the lotus of pure existence blooming under the radiance of consciousness, time delights in its own form, accompanied by its beloved actions. It establishes its own form, boundless from beginning to end, set high like a great mountain, remaining steadfast. At times, time appears as dark as a shadow; at other times, it shines with radiance; yet, by turns, it is empty of both, abiding in its own nature. Merged with the essence of countless worlds through the reality of its own self, it stands fixed, as if bound by a great and weighty mass. Time does not suffer, nor does it die; it neither comes nor goes; it neither sets nor rises, enduring even through hundreds of great aeons. Only for the play of beginning the world, with effortless ease, does it pass time within itself, having attained a state free from ego. It remains, projecting the night’s muddy darkness and the day’s lotus array—the bee of action—upon the lake of its own self. Seizing the dreadful black night, the worn-out sweeper, it brings forth the golden dust of light, scattering it all around the earth.