At the end of the vast aeons, when the world trembles with the tumultuous roar of drums and the swirling of lotus ponds, even celestial musicians like Tumburu and his companions flee from her presence. In this ultimate hour, Death himself begins his fierce dance. His sword gleams with the brightness of the moon’s disk, his hair is adorned with stars and moonlight, and he wears a crown crafted from the feathers of the sky. On one of his earlobes hangs the mighty Himavat mountain as a ring, while on the other, the golden ornament of the great Meru shines. His swinging earrings bear the radiance of the moon and sun, lighting his cheeks, and around his waist is girded the chain formed by the Lokāloka mountains. As he moves, a streak of lightning appears as a decorative band, waving in the wind, shining like a sash made from clouds. He is armed with clubs, spears, tridents, javelins, lances, and maces—sharp and gathered together like the deadly agents that bring destruction to the exhausted hosts of the world. In the long noose of worldly bondage, spun by Time itself, the great serpent Śeṣa is strung as a garland, adorning her. Her arms are radiant with the lustre of living gem-insects, the bracelets fashioned from the seven oceans. The great whirlpool of worldly dealings—the endless succession of pleasure and pain, filled with dust and dark as night—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, she enacts a play of laughter and dance, taking on every form, adorned with the gestures of old age, suffering, and sorrow. Once more, she creates 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 all its forces, O great sage, what steadfastness can there be for people like me in what is called saṃsāra? We stand as if sold by the forces of fate and its companions—deceived by the cunning tricks of the world, like bewildered animals lost in the forest. Time, ignoble and ever hungry to devour, relentlessly casts the world into the ocean of calamity. In the end, fate burns the world with cruel acts 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, ever inclined to impose its own order, like a woman by her own 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, does not show compassion to the suffering; and 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. Life is extremely fleeting, and death alone is relentless; youth is transient, and childhood is lost in dullness. The world is stained with faults; relatives become bonds in the cycle of becoming; pleasures are the great diseases of existence, and craving is like a mirage. Indeed, the senses themselves are enemies; truth has turned into 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 have become fixated on women. Desires are attached to their objects, even when they seem delightful; women are banners of faults, and pleasures have become tasteless. Reality is taken as unreality, and the mind is absorbed in ego; existences are blocked by non-existence, and the end of becoming is not attained. O noble one, the mind, inwardly agitated, is tormented; the color of passion shines forth, but dispassion is never attained. Perception, struck by the quality of rajas, is increasingly enveloped by tamas; and sattva, the true essence, cannot be reached, for it is 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 seems to blaze in the body, and wrongdoing stirs up violently. In youth, even with effort, the company of the virtuous is far away; there is no clear path anywhere, and truth does not arise. The mind seems bewildered within, happiness has gone far away; compassion does not shine forth, but baseness draws near from afar. Courage turns into cowardice, people are intent on downfall and disaster; the embrace of the wicked is easy, but the company of the good is hard to find. States of being come and go, imagination binds one to existence; the endless succession of beings is carried on somewhere, always. Even the directions are no longer seen, and the land has lost all distinction; even mountains crumble away—what hope is there for someone like me? Even the oceans are drying up, and the stars are fading away; even the perfected beings do not remain perfected—what hope is there for someone like me? Even the sky is consumed by non-being, and the world itself is breaking apart; even the earth becomes unstable—what hope is there for someone like me? Even the demons are destroyed, and even the constant one has an impermanent life; even the immortals die—what hope is there for someone like me? Even Indra is overpowered by other Indras, and even Yama is restrained; even the wind can lose its motion—what hope is there for someone like me? Even the moon becomes like the sky, and the sun is shattered; even fire becomes weak—what hope is there for someone like me?