Listen, then, to this tale of the world’s deep struggle, woven from the sacred verses. All that comes to a person—the joys and sorrows, the very states of being and non-being—are but the blossoms, both bitter and sweet, that grow from the vine of craving. It is craving’s root that nourishes every experience, and the world itself is bound tight by the threads of its own tendencies. When these tendencies are strengthened, suffering grows intense; but when they are destroyed, happiness arises. No one is spared: even the wise, the learned, the noble-born, and the mighty are ensnared by craving, as surely as a lion is restrained by a chain. Within the tree of the body, the mind—restless as the wind—dwells in the heart, where the net of craving is cunningly devised to entangle it. Afflicted by these deep-seated tendencies, the world is dragged helplessly by fate, just as a bound bird, captive to a child’s rope, can only breathe and flutter in vain. Enough, then, of outward battles and the burden of weapons; it is with discernment alone that one should confront the true enemy: the inner tendency and its many distortions. When inner steadiness is disturbed, even the greatest leaders among the immortals cannot conquer you—not with weapons, nor scriptures, nor missiles. These external means are but ropes and whips, and through repeated battle, they strive to seize the tendency within, which is born of ego. If those mechanical beings, conjured by the sorcerer Shambara, do not manage to grasp hold of this tendency, then they will become invincible. Therefore, awaken the immortals within yourself through the battle of discernment; let them, by the force of repeated practice, become possessed of right tendencies. Then, those whose thoughts are bound will become fit for destruction, for in this world, none are truly weak who are woven with the expectation of desire. This world, with all its equality and inequality, has gained stability from its own tendencies, moving like a mass of waves upon the ocean. Therefore, it is these very tendencies that must be recognized, treated, and brought to an end. After these teachings, the gods, having listened, departed each to their own direction, carrying with them the fragrance of lotuses, like breezes bearing garlands from the forest. For several days, they rested in their radiant abodes, like bees nestled in steadfast lotuses. In time, auspiciousness arose that awakened the Self within them, and they sounded their drums with a thunderous roar, like clouds at the world’s dissolution. Then, once more, a dreadful and prolonged battle unfolded in the sky—gods and demons, the latter rising from the netherworld, clashed again. Torrents of swords, arrows, spears, maces, clubs, axes, discs, thunderbolts, mountains, rocks, blazing trees, and weapons shaped like serpents and Garuḍa flew in every direction. A mighty river, conjured by illusion, surged and crashed with stones, mountains, trees from the earth’s edge, and waves of water, roaring like thunderclouds. Blazing torches, spears, rocks, lances, swords, arrows, javelins, and maces swept along its current, while celestial mansions, surrounded by waters like the Ganges, were battered by showers of missiles. This river, formed of earth and other elements, fierce in its blows and seizing of treasures, appeared in the sky as a body of rays. It would subside only when the armies of gods, demons, and siddhas were pacified, but, born of illusion, it would rise again from its own essence. Mountains struck by weapons, vast oceans brimming with crimson waters, and forests of tall palms growing atop the peaks of gods and demons became the very faces of the heavens. Spears, arrows, javelins, maces, swords, and discs were hurled, and mountains cast aside in fury. The clash of sharp teeth and nails mingled with the rain of living, ferocious lions descending to earth. The armies of the sun at the end of the age revealed their blazing eyes, venomous flames, and scorching heat, burning the quarters. Serpents, wild as intoxicated oceans, soared and spread across the earth and its mountains. Thunderous roars, the crashing of makaras, and the swirling waves of the sky-ocean—encircled by mighty mountains—made the world perilous, as torrents from rivers of weapons surged and whirled. The sky was adorned with mountains, weapons, and Garuda-peaks, filled with the bodies of great serpents and demon hosts. For a moment, it was flooded with clouds, then fire, then sunlight, then darkness. The world became unbearable, ablaze with the fires of the age, as Garuda’s thunderous cries filled the sky and torrents of weapon-fire and mountain-masses poured forth, burning the abodes of gods and the spaces between them. Demons soared up from the earth like birds ascending from mountain slopes; gods, overwhelmed, fell to the ground like rocks shaken loose at dissolution. Gods and demons, their bodies scorched by the great fires clinging to the weapon-trees, reached the sky’s heights, which shone with mountains swayed by the winds of the age. The sky, filled with streams of blood from gods, demons, and mountain-lords, shone crimson like the dawn Ganges, encircling the heavens and the ocean. There was a rain of mountains, water, and fierce weapons; a rain of uneven stones; and then a rain of fire upon one another. Those skilled in battle shattered the walls of great mountains and unleashed a shower of flowers everywhere, as if blossoming on the branches of the quarters. Gods and demons, agitated by the tumult, wielded weapons in confusion, striking one another, their bodies blazing with the fire of Indra’s thunder, seated on vast thrones, wandering the sky and scattering streams of blood. The world’s belly was filled with severed heads, hands, arms, and thighs, whirling like ominous locusts in the sky, and with dense clouds, fierce as mountains, that blocked the sun and the mountain ranges at the horizon. The universe became dreadful, as at the end of time: wild fire, agitated water, wind, and sun; forests torn apart; hosts of gods and demons destroyed; yet the walls and corners of the cosmic egg remained unbroken. The world was in turmoil, the directions thrown into confusion by mountain peaks struck and scattered by heavy weapons, resounding with the cries of fierce cave-dwelling beasts and the roars of lions as clouds crashed down. The sky was filled with rivers and oceans of illusion, clouds of fire and smoke, trees, corpses of gods and demons, mountains, and showers of rocks; heads, arrows, spears, maces, missiles, and weapons were scattered like leaves blown by the wind. With blows as irresistible as the coming and going of mountains’ wings, torrents of water—full as the ocean, released from the ruined cities of the gods by the fall of warriors’ bodies like mountains—rushed forth at once. The sky was filled with deep, thunderous roars; the spaces between mountains were washed with blood; the world-cave became agitated, swirling with the currents of battle. This tumult of battle, crowded with gods and demons, spread endlessly in all directions, bringing both pleasure and pain, creation and destruction; it became, in truth, just like this endless cycle of worldly existence. And then, through illusion and dispute, through alliances and conflicts, through flight, steadfastness, and cunning stratagems, the great struggle continued, echoing the ceaseless drama of the world itself.