Even the greatest among the gods are not immune to the forces that govern this world. Brahma himself is not beyond misfortune, and the mysterious unborn power can take away even Vishnu. Shiva, too, is not untouched and can be reduced to non-being. If such is the fate of these exalted ones, what hope is there for someone like me? Time itself is shattered and divided, and Destiny can be led away. Even the vastness of space dissolves into the infinite. In the face of such overwhelming powers, what hope remains for me? All the worlds are swept up and mocked by an unknown force—one whose true nature is neither heard nor spoken nor seen, yet it causes delusion everywhere. This force takes the subtle form of ego and dwells within all beings; there is no one in the three worlds who is not troubled by it. Just as the sun’s charioteer is tossed helplessly among rocks, mountains, and forested cliffs, so too is every living being buffeted endlessly by the forces of existence. The great earth, holding within itself hosts of gods and demons, is encircled by the wheel of the heavens, just as a ripe wood-apple is wrapped in its rind. All beings—gods in heaven, humans on earth, demons and serpents in the underworld—are mere creations of imagination, destined to decay and dissolution. Desire, gaining strength from the fire of the world’s rulers, spreads wildly and without order, seizing the world in its grasp. Spring arrives like a drunken elephant, scattering showers of flowers and fragrant breezes, bending the mind away from its straight path. Even great discernment cannot always clarify the mind, especially when it is captivated by the gaze of a loving woman’s eyes. Yet, I think, only the wise—whose minds are cooled by selflessness, who act for the good of others, and are moved by compassion for the suffering—are truly happy. Who can count the waves in the ocean of life, which arise and vanish, constantly struck down by the fire of time? People, deluded by vain hopes, are bound as if by cords, swallowed up in the jungle of birth, like deer caught in a thicket of faults. Lifespan is diminished by the evil deeds accumulated through countless births, and even those skilled in discernment cannot know what fruit will come, for fate is as elusive as a snare woven from branches of the sky. Day by day, people weave their own webs of fancy: “Today is a festival, this is the season, here is the journey, these are my relatives, this is happiness, this is special enjoyment.” With minds fickle and unsteady, they pass away from this world, caught in these fleeting pleasures. Moreover, O father, in this world, even the most delightful and charming forms cannot bring about the state by which the mind attains perfect rest. Childhood, with its imagined playfulness, passes away; youth, that deer of age, is scattered among the caves of women; the body grows worn out, and people are left only with torment. 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 the time of ripening surely comes, the body-vine of men, weakened by age, burden, and frail offspring, bows down. The river of craving, swift in its current, sweeps away all objects, skillfully eroding the roots of the tree of contentment standing on its bank. The body, like a boat bound by leather straps, is tossed about in the ocean of existence, driven downward by the five crocodiles of the senses, under their control. The mind, like deer wandering in the forest of craving, roams among the hundred branches of the trees of desire, exhausting itself in pursuit of pleasure, yet never attaining the fruit. Rare indeed are those great souls whose inner being remains unstruck, who delight in mastery and whose minds are not scattered, even amidst beautiful women, far from sorrow and delusion. To me, those who cross the waves of elephants and the ocean of battle are not true heroes; only those who cross the waves of the mind and the ocean of the senses are heroes here. Nowhere is there an action that effortlessly yields perfect fruit; for those whose minds are struck by vain hopes, rest comes only when all hopes are at last exhausted. Those who fill the world with fame, the sky with glory, their homes with wealth, and Lakshmi with virtue—whose bonds of righteousness are unbroken—are not easily found among men. Even what is hidden deep within a mountain or inside a fortress of diamond is inevitably reached by the swift force of both fortune and misfortune, which come constantly and unbidden. Sons, wives, and wealth are imagined 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 having reached the poisonous 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 pursuing pleasure, wealth, and virtue—whose results are thin and uncertain—with a mind as restless as a peacock’s feather, how can a man ever find rest? Even the fruits of actions, as varied as the waves of a surging river and sometimes unattainable despite effort, come about only by fate; thus, the world, with all its differing tastes, is mocked. All these delightful deeds, thought to be endlessly rewarding, wear out a person’s mind through the pleasures and pains of birth and death, until at last old age brings it to exhaustion. Just as leaves of trees, after coming together, quickly fall away, so too do people lacking discernment gather for a short while and then depart to who knows where. After wandering far and wide, returning home at the end of the day, if one’s day is spent in actions devoid of the company of the wise and of good deeds, who finds restful sleep? As long as enemies are kept at bay and prosperity is gathered, people enjoy their pleasures—until death arrives from somewhere, unannounced. People in this world, enticed by fleeting and trivial states of mind that arise from nowhere and vanish in an instant, do not know whether what has come is truly attained or not. Those who, seeking to escape the jaws of time, perform actions with effort but are bound by unfortunate deeds—when they forcibly attain bodily strength, remain trapped in the body. This restless multitude in the world comes and goes ceaselessly and swiftly, like waves that are unstable and break in a moment. There are things that steal away the life of men: the mind, which robs delight; women with restless eyes, like bees on red petals; and the poisonous creepers of venomous trees—all bring harm. The bonds of relationships—wife, friend, and business—are formed in vain, coming together from here and there, tied by similar feelings. In the end, they are merely the illusion of social dealings among men.