In the days of youth, no matter how hard one tries, the company of the virtuous seems far away, as if there is no clear path to reach them, and truth itself does not arise within. The mind feels lost and confused, happiness drifts ever further away, and compassion fails to shine forth—while, instead, baseness and low tendencies approach from afar, drawing near with ease. Courage, once strong, turns into cowardice; people become intent on their own downfall and disaster. It is easy to fall into the embrace of the wicked, but the company of the good is rarely found. States of being come and go in endless succession, and the imagination binds one to the cycle of existence, carrying on the ceaseless parade of beings. In such a state, even the directions are lost to sight, the land itself loses all distinction, and mountains—once steadfast—crumble away. What hope remains for someone like me? Even the oceans are drying up, the stars are fading, and even the perfected beings do not remain perfected—so what hope is there for someone like me? The very sky is consumed by non-being, the world breaks apart, and even the earth is unstable—what hope is there for someone like me? Even the demons are destroyed, and those considered constant have impermanent lives; even the immortals are subject to death—what hope is there for someone like me? Indra, king of the gods, is overpowered by other Indras, and Yama, lord of death, is restrained; even the wind can lose its motion—what hope is there for someone like me? The moon becomes indistinguishable from the sky, the sun is shattered, and fire itself becomes weak—what hope is there for someone like me? Even Brahma, the creator, 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? Time is broken into pieces, Destiny itself is led away, and even space dissolves into the infinite—what hope is there for someone like me? All the worlds are mocked by some unknown force—its nature is unheard, unspeakable, and invisible—a force that brings about delusion. This force assumes the subtle form of ego and dwells within all beings. In all the three worlds, there is no one who is not troubled by it. Just as the sun’s charioteer is helplessly shaken among rocks, mountains, and forest cliffs, so too is each soul tossed about endlessly in existence. The earth, which holds hosts of gods and demons, is encircled by the wheel of the heavens, just as a ripe wood-apple is encased by its rind. Gods in heaven, humans on earth, demons and serpents in the underworld—all are creations of imagination, and all are led to decay. Desire, fueled by the fire of the world’s rulers, spreads without order and leaps about, seizing the world. Spring, like a drunken elephant, showers 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, I think. Who can count the waves in this ocean of life, which arise and vanish, 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, as deer are caught in the thicket of faults. In this world, people’s lifespans are diminished by the 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. People say, “Today is a festival, this is the season, here is the journey, these are your relatives, this is happiness, this is special enjoyment.” Thus, weaving their own web of fancies, their minds fickle and unsteady, they pass away from this world. Moreover, O father, in this world, even the most delightful and charming forms bring nothing that gives the mind perfect rest. When childhood, with its imagined playfulness, has passed, and youth—the deer of age—has scattered among the caves of women, and the body has become worn out, then people are only tormented. When the lotus of the body is struck by the frost of old age and abandoned, and the dragonfly of life departs in an instant, the lake of worldly existence dries up. When ripening surely arrives, the body-vine of men, weakened by age, burden, and weak offspring, bows down. The river of craving, with its swift current, sweeps away all objects without number. In this world, it skillfully erodes the roots of the tree of contentment standing on its bank. The boat of the body, bound by leather straps, is tossed about in the ocean of existence, wandering and driven downward by the five crocodiles called senses, ever under their control. The deer of the mind, wandering in the forest of craving, roam among the hundred branches of the trees of desire, exhausting themselves in pursuit of pleasure, yet never attaining the fruit. Rare indeed are those great ones, whose inner being is unstruck, who, even in hardship and surrounded by beauty, delight in mastery with minds undistracted by sorrow and delusion. Those who cross the waves of elephant-herds and the ocean of battle are not true heroes to me; only those who cross the waves of the mind and this ocean of the senses are heroes here. Nowhere is there seen any action that, delightful and effortless, brings perfect fruit; for those whose minds are struck by vain hopes, rest comes to the world only upon attaining such a state. Those who fill the world with fame, the sky with glory, their homes with wealth, and Lakshmi with the strength of virtue, whose bonds of righteousness are unbroken—such men are rare. Even that which is hidden in the heart of a mountain or within a fortress of diamond is inevitably reached by the swift force of both fortune and misfortune, which come constantly. Sons, wives, and wealth are conceived by the mind, O dear one, just like an elixir; yet none of these truly help at the end, when only the most delightful poison remains. When a person, afflicted by sorrow and reaching the poisonous state at the end of the body’s span, remembers his own experiences—empty of true value—he is inwardly consumed by the fire of old age. After spending his days first in actions aimed at pleasure, wealth, and virtue—whose results are thin and uncertain—and with a mind as restless as a peacock’s feather, how can a man ever find rest?