Within the vast pavilion of the world, there dances a goddess whose form is pure, unrestrained vibration, ever flickering with the ceaseless coming and going of events. She delights in this cosmic dance, her body adorned with ornaments that are themselves the rows of other worlds, and her immense hair-circlet stretches from the heights of the sky down to the deepest nethermost regions. Around her netherworldly foot trembles the anklet-garland of hell, its jingling sound strung upon the thread of evil deeds. Upon her brow, a musk-mark is painted by Citragupta, the friend of ritual acts, marking her forehead in the quiet hours of the night. At the end of the aeons, she assumes the fierce form of Kali, bustling with wild activity, her thunderous cries echoing across mountain peaks. Behind her, youthful chariots adorned with peacock feathers swing wildly, and 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, while she waves beautiful white mandara flowers and the pale yak-tail fans of Gauri. She brandishes drums shaped like Bhairava’s belly, their echoes resounding through her wild dance, and rattles skull bowls taken from Indra’s body, each with a thousand holes. The sky itself is filled with the dry, broken fragments of bodies and clubs, and she appears, even to herself, as black as dense storm clouds. She is adorned with garlands of lotus flowers and wheels crafted from the heads of all beings, shining forth as she whirls in her dance during the great aeons. With the tumultuous roar of drums and the swirling of lotus ponds, even the celestial musician Tumburu and others flee from her at the end of the ages. Then, Death himself appears, dancing fiercely, his sword gleaming like the moon’s disk. His hair is adorned with stars and moonlight, and he wears a crown made from the feathers of the sky. On one earlobe, Himavat mountain hangs as a ring; on the other, the great golden Meru shines as a lovely ornament. Swinging earrings hold the moon and sun, casting their light upon his cheeks, while the chain of Lokāloka mountains forms a girdle around his waist. Lightning streaks across, moving here and there as a decorative band, waving in the wind and shining like a sash made of cloud-cloth. He is armed with clubs, spears, tridents, javelins, lances, and maces—sharp and gathered like the deadly agents that destroy the worn-out hosts of the world. The long noose of worldly bondage, spun by Time, is adorned with the great serpent Śeṣa as a garland. His arms are radiant with bracelets made from the seven oceans, shining like living gem-insects. The great whirlpool of worldly dealings, filled with the succession of pleasure and pain, dark as night and dusty, forms the line of hair that shines upon him. In this way, at the end of an age, Death, fierce in his dance, withdraws the play of creation, together with the Lord of all. Yet, the goddess returns to enact another play of laughter and dance, taking on every form, adorned with gestures of old age, suffering, and sorrow. Once more, she creates worlds, forests, realms, and the web of people; she fashions the varied conduct of beings, both moving and unmoving, much like a child tirelessly shaping forms from mud. In this ongoing cycle of time and all its parts, a great sage wonders: what steadfastness is possible for people like me in what is called saṃsāra? We stand as if sold by the forces of fate and circumstance, deceived by the cunning tricks of the world, like bewildered animals lost in the forest. Time, ignoble and ever-hungry, relentlessly casts the world into the ocean of calamity. In the end, fate burns the world with cruel acts and false hopes, scorching like fire with its blazing, flower-like flames. Destiny, fickle and fond of forms, undermines resolve with a single affliction, ever inclined to impose its own order, much like a woman by her own nature. Death, harsh and unyielding, consumes the multitude of beings like a serpent swallowing the wind, leading all into old age before their end. Yama, the merciless king, shows no compassion to the suffering, and those who practice universal kindness have become exceedingly rare. All living beings possess only meager wealth, and are sources of endless, harsh suffering rooted in greed. Life is fleeting, death relentless; youth is transient, and childhood is lost in dullness. The world is stained with faults; relatives are bonds in the cycle of becoming; pleasures are the great diseases of existence, and craving is like a mirage. Even the senses are enemies, truth has become untruth, the self strikes itself, and the mind is its own adversary. Ego is a blemish, intellects are unstable, actions yield poor results, and pastimes are fixated on women. Desires remain attached to their objects, even when they seem delightful; women are banners of faults, and pleasures have lost their taste. Reality is mistaken for unreality, and the mind is absorbed in ego; existences are blocked by non-existence, and the end of becoming is never attained. The mind, inwardly agitated, is tormented; passion shines forth, but dispassion is never reached. Perception, struck by rajas, is increasingly enveloped by tamas; sattva, the true essence, remains exceedingly distant. Stability turns into instability, death is ever approaching; firmness becomes confusion, and attachment is always to the unreal. The mind, dulled by sluggishness, is tainted; the body is intent only on decline; old age blazes within, and wrongdoing stirs violently. Thus, the cosmic dance of creation and destruction continues, and the beings within are swept along, bewildered by the forces of time, fate, and death, ever yearning for freedom amidst the endless cycles of saṃsāra.