Only the truly wise, whose hearts are cooled by selflessness, who act for the welfare of others and are moved by the suffering they see, know real happiness. Who, indeed, can count the waves that arise and vanish in the vast ocean of life, each one struck down by the relentless fire of time? Deluded by vain hopes, people are bound by invisible cords and wander lost in the tangled jungle of birth, just as deer are ensnared by the thickets of their own faults. The evil deeds accumulated through countless lifetimes diminish the span of life, and even those skilled in discernment cannot foresee what fruit their actions will bear—such outcomes are as elusive as a snare woven from the very branches of the sky. People declare, “Today is a festival, this is the right season, here is the journey, these are my 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, never grasping the truth. Moreover, O father, even the most delightful and charming forms in this world cannot bring about that state by which the mind finds perfect rest. When childhood, with its imagined playfulness, has passed, and youth—the deer of age—wanders among the caves of women, the body grows worn 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 inevitable ripening of age arrives, the body-vine, weakened by burdens and offspring of little strength, bows down under its own weight. The river of craving, swift and powerful, sweeps away countless objects of desire, skillfully eroding the very roots of the tree of contentment that stands on its bank. The body, like a boat bound by leather straps, is tossed about in the ocean of existence, wandering aimlessly and driven downward by the five crocodiles called senses, ever under their control. The deer of the mind roam restlessly in the forest of craving, leaping among the hundred branches of the trees of desire, exhausting themselves in pursuit of pleasure, yet never attaining the fruit they seek. Amidst such hardships, far from sorrow and delusion, delighting in mastery with undistracted minds, there are, even now, some rare great ones whose inner being remains unstruck, even among all the beauties of the world. 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 the ocean of the senses deserve that name. Nowhere is there any action that, with effortless perfection, brings lasting delight; for those whose minds are struck by vain hopes, the world attains rest only upon reaching such a state of peace. It is rare indeed to find those who fill the world with fame, the sky with glory, their homes with wealth, and Lakshmi with the strength of virtue, their bonds of righteousness unbroken. Even that which is hidden deep within a mountain or locked within a fortress of diamond is inevitably reached by the swift force of both fortune and misfortune, which come unceasingly. Sons, wives, and wealth are all conceived by the mind, O dear one, like a magical elixir; yet none of these truly help at the end, when only the most delightful poison remains. When a person, afflicted by sorrow and nearing the poisonous end of the body’s span, recalls his own experiences—empty of true value—he is inwardly consumed by the fire of old age. After spending his days in pursuit of 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? Even the fruits of actions, as varied as the waves of a surging river and sometimes unattainable though pursued, come about only by fate; thus, the world, with its differing tastes, is mocked. Deeds thought to be endlessly delightful wear out the mind through the pleasures and pains of birth and death, until at last, old age brings exhaustion. Just as leaves of trees, having come together, quickly fall away, so too do people lacking discernment gather and then, after a few days, depart—no one knows where. After wandering here and there, far and wide, and returning home at the end of the day, those whose days are spent in actions devoid of the company of the wise and of good deeds—who among them finds restful sleep? As long as all enemies are kept at bay and prosperity gathers everywhere, people enjoy their pleasures—until death arrives from somewhere, unannounced. People, enticed by fleeting and trivial states of mind that arise and vanish in an instant, do not know whether what has come is truly attained or not. Those who, hoping to escape the jaws of time, perform actions with effort but are bound by unfortunate deeds—when they forcibly attain bodily strength, remain trapped within the body. The restless multitude of the world comes and goes ceaselessly and swiftly, like a wave-formation that is unstable and breaks in a moment. Many things are intent only on taking the life of men: the mind, which steals delight; women with restless eyes like bees on red petals; and the poisonous creepers of venomous trees—all these bring harm. The bonds of relationships—wife, friend, business—are formed in vain, coming from here and there, tied by similar feelings, and are merely the illusion of social dealings among men. Just as the true nature of things is not known in the flickering and steady lights of lamps, or in the states of food consumed with great attachment, so too, the reality is not recognized in the moving and unmoving illusions of worldly existence. This tumultuous whirlpool of worldly existence, though fragile like bubbles in the rain, establishes a long-lasting conviction in the mind of the inattentive person. Splendor and brilliance have perished due to affliction; virtues remain now in a state of decay; comfort has gone far from people, like lotuses in winter. Again and again, by the force of fate, harm is done to one’s own body; where a tree is repeatedly struck by axes, what place can there be for comfort? Even for one who is delightful, when excessive faults arise within, disturbance is produced—just as association with a poisonous tree brings faintness to a person. Where are those forms free from faults? Where are those directions where there is no burning pain? Who are those people who are not fragile? What are those actions that are not, in name, mere illusion? Even those called ‘Brahmas,’ whose lives last but a moment of a kalpa, are unable to count the multitude of kalpas; therefore, in this net of time, which is full of divisions, thoughts of shortness or length are unfounded. Everywhere, mountains are made of stone, the earth is clay, trees are only wood; people are formed of flesh, bound by their humanity—here, nothing is new, nothing is free from change. All that is seen, pervaded by consciousness, is but an aggregate bound by water, existing in space; through distinct divisions and the fortune of objects, this is the world—there is nothing else at all. Astonishment exists here, in the world of the mind; it is the wonder produced in the minds of people. Even in dreams, O noble one, this marvelous form does not come to some, in regard to any object.