O sage, listen closely to the wondrous mystery: There is a force at play in this universe, subtle and indestructible. Though it is struck, it does not break; though scorched, it is never burned. Even when seen, it remains elusive, the supreme jewel among all tricksters. In the blink of an eye, this force lifts one thing up and destroys another, spreading itself like a boundless kingdom woven of imagination. Its play is difficult to fathom—powerful and relentless—delighting in pleasures both harsh and strange. It stirs the hearts of beings as a cook stirs a pot of soup, never ceasing, always agitating. Nothing escapes its reach. Whether it be a blade of grass, a mote of dust, mighty Indra, the towering Mount Sumeru, a fragile leaf, or the vast ocean—it is ever ready to absorb all into itself, swelling by its own expansion. Here, within its domain, cruelty finds its home, greed is firmly rooted, all misfortune gathers, and restlessness abounds. With a playful spirit, it sets the sun and moon to wander across the sky, sporting as a child in its own courtyard, tossing about its toys. When the aeon draws to a close, Time itself shines forth, the creator of all imaginings, garlanded with the bones of every creature that ever lived. At that end-time, as Time dances its wild dance, even the mighty Meru quivers in the heavens, shaken by the limbs flung about in that fierce and terrible dance, like birch bark caught in a stormy wind. This force becomes all things: Rudra, Mahendra, the Grandfather; it is Shukra, Vaishravana, and then again, it is nothing at all. Within itself, it bears countless creations—brilliant and destroyed—rising and falling without end, each unique yet inseparable, like waves upon the ocean. Amidst the trees named after the great ages, it shakes down the ripe fruits—gods and demons—gathered in clusters. It strides with vast feet among swarms of universes, buzzing and restless like gnats, tossed about and falling. With the lotus of pure existence blossoming under the radiance of consciousness, it delights in its own form, accompanied by the beloved play of its actions. It establishes its own form, boundless from beginning to end, set high like a great mountain, steadfast and unmoving. Sometimes it appears dark as a shadow, sometimes it shines with brilliant light, and sometimes it abides in neither, empty of both, resting in its own true nature. Merged with the essence of countless worlds through the reality of its own self, it stands fixed, as if anchored by an immense and weighty mass. It does not suffer, nor does it die; it neither comes nor goes; it neither sets nor rises, even as hundreds of great aeons pass by. Only for the sport of beginning the world does it pass time within itself, effortlessly, having attained a state free from all ego. It remains, projecting the muddy darkness of night and the array of lotuses by day—like the bee of action hovering over the lake of its own being. Seizing the dreadful black night, the worn-out sweeper, it brings forth the golden dust of light to surround the earth. With the finger of action, it moves the lamp of the sun into every corner, and, out of compassion, observes what and where things are in the house of the world. Watching the days ripen in a single moment with the sun’s eye, it consumes the fruits even of the world-guardians, as one might devour the produce of an ancient forest. Death, like a fierce chest, gradually deposits the jewels of worlds—the worn-out huts of the universe—into its dreadful cavity. The string of world-gems, filled with all qualities, it adorns upon itself as if for decoration, only to cut it off again. With the garland of night-lotuses trailing behind the swan of day, this fickle one ever encircles the sky, weaving the rays of stars as filaments. The wine-seller of life, who stirs mountain, river, cloud, and world, daily drinks up even the red drops of stars after sprinkling them about. There is nothing—no youth, no lotus, no moon, no lion’s mane of life—that this thief of the trivial and the great does not seize. With the sport of the world-cycle, crushing and casting down creatures, it delights in its own self, smiling at the play of arising and subsiding. It is the doer, the enjoyer, the destroyer, the rememberer, who has reached every state—doing all, yet doing nothing at all. The power of time, shining among people, at once reveals and conceals the entirety of form—bearing both auspicious and inauspicious shapes, and marked by all the divisions of time. Yet, all these steps of the grand play are far removed from the prince in the world whose strength has not been measured by time. As this force acts, with herds of bewildered, miserable creatures, the world—worn and weary—becomes a hunting ground in the thicket of existence. In one place, the beautiful lotus of submarine fire arises—a delightful lake of play, the great ocean at the age of dissolution. The course of time in the world is filled with those very beings, aged and soured in the bitter, salty seas of existence. The fierce one, moving in all directions, accompanied by the hosts of mothers, is the she-wolf in the forest of existence, drawing the deer of men. The earth rests on her palm, a drinking vessel filled with flavors, adorned with nets of swaying lotuses, water-lilies, and garlands of flowers. Roaring and striking fiercely, the man-lion in the cage of arms, with a broad and muscular mane, is the beloved playful bird. Sweet as the music of a gourd-vina, with the pure radiance of the autumn sky, the god is truly Mahakala, the playful young cuckoo. With a form that constantly roars, casting away the arrows of suffering, wielding the bow named ‘non-conception’, it vibrates everywhere. Enhanced by the supreme play of vibration—wandering, seizing, whirling, tearing apart—this aged, world-worn, restless monkey, time itself, makes its body pulse and throb throughout all that exists.