Far above the reach of ordinary beings, the mysterious steps of this cosmic drama unfold—steps that lie far beyond the grasp of the worldly prince, whose true strength has never been measured, not even by the passage of time itself. Within this grand play, he moves among the herds of bewildered and sorrowful creatures; the world, worn thin by suffering, becomes nothing more than a wild hunting ground, tangled in the thicket of existence. In one part of this vast stage, a wondrous lotus of submarine fire rises, a brilliant bloom in the midst of dissolution, floating upon a delightful lake—a playful image set amidst the great ocean that marks the end of ages. The flow of time in this world is filled with these very beings, who grow old and weary, tossed about in the sour, bitter, and salty seas of existence. A fierce one roams in all directions, accompanied by the hosts of mothers—the she-wolf in the forest of life, luring the deer of men deeper into the wilds. The earth itself rests upon her palm, a vessel brimming with every flavor, adorned with swaying nets of lotuses and water-lilies, garlanded with blooms. Roaring and striking fiercely, the man-lion paces within the cage of arms, his mane broad and powerful—yet he is also the beloved, playful bird. Sweet as the music from a gourd-vina, radiant as the clear autumn sky, the god reveals himself as Mahakala, the playful young cuckoo. His form is ever-roaring, casting aside the arrows of suffering, wielding a bow called “non-conception,” vibrating throughout all existence. Empowered by the supreme play of vibration, this aged, world-worn, restless monkey—Time itself—wanders, seizes, whirls, and tears apart, making its very body pulse with the dance of creation and dissolution. Amidst these difficult pleasures, another jewel appears: the world calls it fate and time, believing them to be the actors behind all things. Yet, apart from mere activity, nothing else is seen of karma, whose nature is simply its own vibration—no intended form can be found. Because of this, the entire succession of beings remains frail, like snow melting under the sun, driven into distress. All that is seen here, the sphere of the world’s enjoyment, is his dance hall; here, he performs his cosmic dance. The third, bearing the dreadful name “Death,” with a skull-bearing body and intoxicated with power, is fate itself, dancing through the world. As Death dances ceaselessly—always with his beloved, Lady Destiny—the supreme lover, the remainder, pure as a crescent moon and the Ganga-bearing one, shine together. In their threefold form, they are like the sacred thread upon the chest of worldly existence, radiant with the light of both thread and threadless. The orbs of the moon and sun are like golden bracelets at the bases of the hands; the playful lotus in the hand, and the divine lotus-heart of the cosmic egg, are the adornments of this form. Stars and shining drops, trembling petals of a whirling lotus, all washed by the waters of the single cosmic ocean—these fill the one, endless sky. Before such a form, Destiny, ever desirous, dances with unceasing passion, her beginnings never ending. Within the world’s pavilion, she delights in dancing, her form unrestrained, ever flickering with the coming and going of events. Her limbs are adorned with the beautiful ornaments of other worlds; her vast hair-circlet hangs from the sky down to the lowest underworld. The anklet-garland of hell, resounding with its jingling, is strung on the thread of evil deeds, trembling upon her netherworldly foot. The musk-mark upon her brow is painted by the friend of ritual acts, Citragupta, during the night. Assuming the fierce form of Kali, bustling with energy at the end of the aeons, this goddess dances again, her thunderous cries echoing from the mountain peaks. Behind her, wild and swinging, are youthful chariots adorned with peacock feathers, and her three eyes glare fiercely, terrifying in their vastness. Her hair, loose and flowing like autumn moonlight, is scattered across her head; she waves beautiful white mandara flowers and the pale yak-tail fans of Gauri. She brandishes drums shaped like Bhairava’s belly, echoing the wild dance, and rattles skull bowls taken from Indra’s body, each with a thousand holes. The sky is filled with dry, broken fragments of bodies and clubs; she herself appears, even to herself, as black as dense clouds. Adorned with garlands of lotus flowers and wheels made from the heads of all beings, she whirls in her dance during the great aeons. With the tumult of roaring drums and the swirling of lotus ponds, at the end of the ages, even Tumburu and other celestial musicians flee from her. In the finale, as Death dances, his sword gleaming like the moon, his hair adorned with stars and moonlight, he wears a crown of sky-feathers. On one earlobe, the long Himavat mountain hangs as a ring; on the other, the great golden Meru. In his swinging earrings, the moon and sun shine upon his cheeks, while the chain of Lokāloka mountains forms a girdle around his waist. A streak of lightning, waving in the wind, shines like a sash of cloud-cloth. With weapons—clubs, spears, tridents, javelins, lances, and maces—sharp and deadly, he destroys the worn-out hosts of the world. In the long noose of worldly bondage spun by Time, the great serpent Śeṣa is strung as a garland, adorning her. The bracelets upon her arms are the seven oceans, radiant with the luster of living gem-insects. The great whirlpool of worldly dealings, the succession of pleasure and pain, filled with dust and darkness, forms the shining line of hair upon her body. In this way, at the end of an age, Death, fierce in his dance, gathers up the play of creation and withdraws it, together with the Lord of all, drawing the cosmic drama to its close.