Amidst the ancient trees named for the great aeons, there stands a mysterious Presence. With a subtle shake, it sends cascading to the ground the ripe fruits—clusters of gods and demons—that have gathered through the ages. This Presence strides with vast, measureless feet among swarms of universes, which buzz and flit like restless gnats, tossed about in the winds of time. Beneath the luminous radiance of consciousness, the pure lotus of existence blossoms forth, and this Presence delights in its own form, accompanied by the play of its beloved actions. Its own essence is established—boundless from beginning to end—set high and steadfast like a great mountain, unshaken and eternal. Sometimes, this One appears dark as a shadow; at other times, it shines with dazzling radiance. Yet, by turns, it is beyond both shadow and light, abiding peacefully in its own true nature. Merged with the very essence of countless worlds, through the reality of its own being, it stands unmoving, as if bound by an immense and weighty mass. Neither suffering nor death touches it; it does not come or go, nor does it set or rise, even as hundreds of aeons pass by. Only for the sheer play of beginning the worlds, it passes time within itself, effortlessly and free from any trace of ego. Projecting both the muddy darkness of night and the radiant array of day—the bee of action—upon the lake of its own self, it remains ever-present. Grasping the dreadful black night, the weary sweeper, it scatters the golden dust of light all around the earth. With the finger of action, it moves the lamp of the sun into every corner, and out of compassion, observes all that exists within the house of the world. Watching the days ripen in a moment through the sun’s eye, it consumes the fruits of the world-guardians, as one might devour the produce of an ancient forest. Death, fierce as a locked chest, gradually swallows the jewels of worlds—the worn-out huts of the universe—into its dreadful cavity. The string of world-gems, filled with all qualities, is worn as a decoration, and then, in turn, cut and cast away. With the garland of night-lotuses following the swan of day, the ever-fickle one encircles the sky with the rays of stars, as if they were delicate filaments. The wine-seller of life stirs mountain, river, cloud, and world, and daily drinks up, after sprinkling, even the red drops of the stars. There is nothing—no youth, no lotus, no moon, no lion’s mane of life—that escapes this thief of both the trivial and the great. Through the sport of the world-cycle, crushing and casting down creatures, it delights in itself, smiling at the arising and subsiding of all things. It is the doer, the enjoyer, the destroyer, the rememberer, present in every state; it accomplishes all these, yet remains untouched, as if doing nothing at all. The power of time, shining among people, at once reveals and conceals the entire form—bearing both auspicious and inauspicious shapes, marked by every division of time. Yet all the steps of this grand play remain far removed from the prince of the world, whose strength has not been measured by time. As this play unfolds, with herds of bewildered, miserable beings, the world—worn out—becomes a hunting ground in the tangled thicket of existence. In one place, a 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 beings aged in the sour, bitter, and salty seas of existence. The fierce one, moving in all directions with all the mothers, is the she-wolf in the forest of existence, drawing the deer of men closer. The earth rests on her palm, a vessel brimming 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 of the cosmos. Sweet as the music of a gourd-vina, pure as the radiance of the autumn sky, this god is Mahakala—the playful young cuckoo. With a form that constantly roars, casting away the arrows of suffering, wielding the bow called ‘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 tremble. Here, amidst all these difficult pleasures, another jewel appears: the world calls it fate and time, believing it to act. Yet, apart from mere activity, nothing else is seen of karma, whose nature is only its own vibration; no intended form is ever found. Through this, the entire succession of beings remains ever frail, and, like snow under a blazing sun, is driven into distress. Whatever is seen here—the sphere of the world’s enjoyment—is his dance hall; here, he dances. A third, bearing the dreadful name ‘Death’, with a skull-bearing body and intoxicated, fate dances in the world. For as Death dances ceaselessly, always with his beloved Lady Destiny, the supreme lover, the play continues. What remains—pure as a crescent moon, and the Ganga-bearing one—these two, in threefold form, shine as the sacred thread upon the chest of worldly existence, radiant with the light of both the threaded and the threadless. The orbs of the moon and sun are golden bracelets at the bases of the hands; the playful lotus rests in the hand, and the divine lotus-heart of the cosmic egg adorns the form. Adorned with stars and drops, trembling petals of a whirling lotus, all washed by the waters of the single ocean—one sky, only sky—this form stands. Before such a form, Destiny herself, ever desirous, dances with unceasing passion, with beginnings that never cease, in the eternal play of existence.