Once again, she—the mysterious, creative force—enacts her play of laughter and dance, taking on every conceivable form. She is adorned with the gestures of old age, suffering, and sorrow, shifting seamlessly between joy and pain. With tireless energy, she creates worlds and realms, forests and the intricate web of people. Like a child shaping figures from mud, she fashions the diverse ways of all beings, both moving and unmoving. Within this endless cycle of time and all its companions, O great sage, what steadfastness can there be for people like me, caught in what is called saṃsāra? We stand as if sold to the powers of fate and destiny, deceived by the cunning tricks of the world, like bewildered animals lost in the forest. Time, with its ignoble ways and insatiable hunger, relentlessly casts the world into an ocean of calamity. Fate, in the end, burns the world with cruel acts and false hopes, just as fire scorches with its blazing, flower-like flames. Destiny, fickle and fond of forms, undermines resolve with a single affliction, always imposing its own order, like a woman acting by her 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, 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 are bonds in the cycle of becoming; pleasures are the great diseases of existence, and craving is like a mirage. 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 are fixated on women. Desires cling to their objects, even when they seem delightful; women are banners of faults, and pleasures have become tasteless. 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. 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, 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 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, while 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, and 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 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? Even Brahma is subject to misfortune, and the unborn one takes away even Vishnu; even Shiva becomes non-being—what hope is there for someone like me? Even Time is broken into pieces, and Destiny is led away; even space dissolves into the infinite—what hope is there for someone like me? All the worlds are mocked by some unknown force, whose nature is unheard, unspeakable, and invisible, and which causes delusion. Having assumed the subtle form of ego, it dwells within all, and there is no one in the three worlds who is not troubled by it here. Just as the sun’s charioteer is helplessly shaken among rocks, mountains, and forest cliffs, so too is one tossed about endlessly. The earth-globe, which holds hosts of gods and demons within, is encircled by the wheel of the heavens, like a ripe wood-apple by its rind. Gods in heaven, humans on earth, and demons and serpents in the underworld—all are imagined by mere imagination, and are led to a state of decay. Desire, having gained strength from the fire of the world’s rulers, forcefully spreads without order and leaps about, seizing the world. Spring, like a drunken elephant, with showers of flowers and fragrant breezes, bends the mind from its straight path. Even great discernment is unable to clarify the mind when it is captivated by the gaze of a loving woman’s eyes.