O noble one, listen as the fleeting nature of life is revealed. Life itself passes in the blink of an eye, while death alone remains relentless and unyielding. Youth, so vibrant, is gone in a moment, and childhood slips away in dull forgetfulness. The world is stained with countless faults, and even those we call relatives are but bonds tying us to the endless cycle of becoming. Pleasures, which seem so sweet, are in truth the great diseases of existence, and craving is like a mirage—always promising, never fulfilling. Indeed, our very senses become enemies, and what is true turns to untruth. The self strikes against itself, and the mind becomes its own adversary. Ego stains our being, intellects waver and are unstable, actions yield meager results, and our pastimes are entangled in the pursuit of women. Desires cling to their objects, even when they appear delightful, yet these objects are banners of faults, and pleasures lose their taste. We mistake reality for unreality, and the mind is absorbed in its own ego. Existence is blocked by non-existence, and the end of becoming cannot be reached. The mind, inwardly agitated, is tormented; the color of passion shines forth, but true dispassion never arises. Perception, struck by the quality of rajas, is increasingly enveloped by tamas, and sattva, the pure essence, seems impossibly distant. Stability gives way to instability, and death is always approaching. Firmness turns to confusion, and attachment clings only to the unreal. The mind, dulled by sluggishness, is stained; the body is intent only on decline. Old age blazes within the body, and wrongdoing stirs up violently. Even in youth, despite effort, the company of the virtuous is far away; there is no clear path, and truth does not arise. Within, the mind is bewildered, happiness has fled, compassion does not shine forth, and baseness draws near from afar. Courage turns into cowardice, and people are intent on their own 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, and imagination binds one to the cycle of existence. The endless succession of beings continues somewhere, always. Even the directions are no longer seen, and the land has lost all distinction. Mountains crumble away—what hope is there for someone like me? The oceans are drying up, the stars are fading; even perfected beings do not remain perfected—what hope is there for me? The sky is consumed by non-being, the world itself is breaking apart, and even the earth becomes unstable—what hope is there for me? Demons are destroyed, even the constant one has an impermanent life, and even the immortals die—what hope is there for me? Even Indra is overpowered by other Indras, and even Yama is restrained. The wind can lose its motion—what hope is there for me? The moon becomes like the sky, the sun is shattered, and fire grows weak—what hope is there for me? Even Brahma is subject to misfortune, and the unborn one takes away even Vishnu; Shiva himself dissolves into non-being—what hope is there for me? Time is broken into pieces, Destiny is led away, and space itself dissolves into the infinite—what hope is there for me? All the worlds are mocked by some unknown force, whose nature is unheard, unspeakable, and invisible, and which causes delusion. Assuming the subtle form of ego, it dwells within all, and there is no one in the three worlds who is not troubled by it. Just as the sun’s charioteer is helplessly shaken among rocks, mountains, and forest cliffs, so too is one tossed about endlessly in this world. The earth, 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, demons and serpents in the underworld—all are imagined by mere imagination, and all are led to decay. Desire, fueled by the fire of the world’s rulers, spreads wildly and leaps about, seizing the world. Spring comes like a drunken elephant, with showers of flowers and fragrant breezes, bending the mind from its straight path. Even great discernment cannot clarify the mind when it is captivated by the gaze of a loving woman’s eyes. Only the wise, whose minds are cooled by selflessness, who act for the good of others and are moved by the suffering of others, are truly happy. Who can count the waves in the ocean of life, which arise and vanish, each one struck down by the fire of time? All people, out of delusion, are bound by the cords of vain hopes, swallowed up in the jungle of birth, like deer caught in thickets of faults. In this world, people’s lifespans are diminished by evil deeds accumulated through countless births; and even those skilled in discernment do not know what fruit will come, for it is like a snare made from the branches of the sky. “Today is a festival, this is the season, here is the journey, these are your relatives, this is happiness, this is special enjoyment”—thus, people, weaving their own web of fancies in vain, with minds fickle and unsteady, pass away from this world. Moreover, O father, in this world, even in the most delightful and charming forms, nothing at all brings about that state by which the mind attains perfect rest. When childhood has passed, with its imagined playfulness, and youth—the deer of age—has scattered among the caves of women, and the body has become worn out, people are only tormented. When the lotus of the body is struck by the frost of old age and abandoned far away, and the dragonfly of life departs in an instant, the lake of worldly existence dries up. When the time of ripening surely arrives, this vine of the body, weakened by old age, burden, and offspring of little strength, bends down. The river of craving, with its swift current, sweeps away all countless objects; in this world, it flows skillfully, eroding the very roots of the tree of contentment that stands on its bank.