Amidst the world’s tangled pleasures, something rare and precious emerges—a jewel that humanity names fate and time, believing these forces to be the agents behind all happenings. Yet, when one looks closely, apart from mere activity, nothing else of karma is perceived; its nature is simply its own ceaseless vibration, with no intended shape or form to be found. Because of this, the entire chain of living beings remains fragile, driven into distress like snow melting under the sun’s heat. All that is seen in this realm—the sphere where the world enjoys its delights—is but a vast dance hall, where the cosmic dancer performs his eternal dance. There is a third force, bearing the fearsome name ‘Death’, with a skull-bearing body, intoxicated; fate itself dances in the world under this dreadful guise. Death dances endlessly, always accompanied by his beloved, Lady Destiny—the supreme lover—never ceasing in their passionate embrace. Yet beyond these, there remain two pure ones, radiant as the crescent moon and the Ganga-bearing deity. These two, in their threefold form, shine upon the chest of worldly existence like a sacred thread, illuminating both the manifest and the unmanifest. Their adornments are the orbs of the moon and sun, golden bracelets at the bases of their hands, the playful lotus held in the palm, and the divine lotus-heart at the center of the cosmic egg. Stars and droplets embellish them, trembling lotus petals whirl about, washed by the waters of the single, boundless ocean—the one sky above all. Before such magnificent forms, Destiny, ever desirous, dances with relentless passion, her beginnings never ceasing. Within the pavilion of the world, she delights in dancing, her form a flickering vibration, ever shifting with the ebb and flow of events. Her limbs are adorned with the rows of other worlds as beautiful ornaments; her vast hair-circlet hangs from the sky down to the lowest underworld. Around her netherworldly foot trembles the anklet-garland of hell, strung on the thread of evil deeds, resounding with a jingle. The musk-mark upon her brow is painted by Citragupta, the friend of ritual acts, during the night, marking her forehead with the record of deeds. At the end of the aeons, she assumes the form of Kali, bustling with activity, dancing again with thunderous cries that echo from the mountain peaks. Behind her, wild and swinging, are youthful chariots adorned with peacock feathers. Her three eyes glare fiercely, terrifying all with their vast and dreadful gaze. 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 the belly of Bhairava, their echoes resounding through her wild dance. Skull bowls taken from Indra’s body, each with a thousand holes, rattle in her hands. The sky is filled with dry, broken fragments of bodies and clubs; she herself appears, even to herself, as black as dense clouds. Garlands of lotus flowers and wheels made from the heads of all beings adorn her, and she shines forth, whirling in her dance during the great aeons. With the tumultuous roar of drums and the swirling of lotus ponds, even Tumburu and others flee from her at the end of the ages. Then, Death dances, his sword gleaming like the moon’s disk, his hair adorned with stars and moonlight, crowned with feathers of the sky. On one earlobe he wears the long Himavat mountain as a ring; on the other, the great Meru as a lovely golden ornament. The moon and sun shine from swinging earrings upon his cheeks, and the chain of Lokāloka mountains forms a girdle around his waist. Lightning streaks appear as decorative bands, waving in the wind, shining like sashes of cloud-cloth. He carries clubs, spears, tridents, javelins, lances, and maces—sharp and gathered like the deadly agents that destroy the exhausted 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. Her arms are radiant with bracelets fashioned from the seven oceans, shining like living gem-insects. The great whirlpool of worldly dealings—the succession of pleasure and pain, filled with dust and darkness—forms the line of hair that shines upon her. Thus, at the end of an age, Death, fierce in his dance, withdraws this play of creation, together with the Lord of all. Yet again, Destiny enacts a new play of laughter and dance, taking on every form, adorned with the gestures of old age, suffering, and sorrow. She creates anew worlds, forests, other realms, and the web of people; she fashions the varied conduct of beings, both moving and unmoving, just as a child tirelessly builds shapes from mud. In this ongoing cycle of time and fate, O great sage, what steadfastness can there be for people like me in what is called saṃsāra? We seem as if sold by these forces of fate, deceived by the cunning tricks of the world, like bewildered animals lost in the forest. Time, ignoble in its ways and ever hungry to devour, relentlessly casts the world into the ocean of calamity. In the end, fate burns the world with cruel deeds and false hopes, just as fire scorches with its blazing, flower-like flames. Destiny, fickle by nature and fond of forms, undermines resolve with a single affliction, always imposing her own order, like a woman swayed by her inherent nature. Death, harsh in conduct, endlessly consumes the multitude of beings like a serpent swallowing the wind, after leading the body of the world into old age. Yama, the merciless king, shows no compassion to the suffering; those who practice universal kindness have become exceedingly rare. All living beings, O sage, possess only meager wealth; they are sources of endless, harsh suffering, rooted in greed.