The body, a fragile vessel lashed together by sinews and skin, drifts aimlessly across the vast and tumultuous ocean of existence. It is battered by the waves, helplessly drawn downward by the five crocodiles—the senses—whose grip is strong and inescapable. Meanwhile, the mind, like a herd of restless deer, roams through the tangled forest of craving. It leaps from one branch of desire to another, exhausting itself in the endless pursuit of pleasure, yet never tasting the true fruit it seeks. Amid such hardships, there are those rare souls, far removed from sorrow and delusion, who delight in self-mastery. Their minds remain undisturbed, unscattered, and their presence is seldom found—even among the most beautiful women. These are the true great ones, whose inner being is untouched by the world’s turmoil. To me, those who cross the surging waves of elephant herds or survive the chaos of battle are not the true heroes. The real heroes are those who conquer the turbulent waves of their own mind and senses, braving the ocean within. Nowhere in this world does one find an action that effortlessly and perfectly yields happiness. For those whose minds are pierced by vain hopes, peace comes only when such striving ceases altogether. Rare indeed are those who fill the world with their fame, the sky with their glory, their homes with wealth, and the goddess Lakshmi with their virtue, whose bonds of righteousness remain unbroken. Yet, even treasures hidden deep within mountains or locked away in diamond fortresses are inevitably found by the twin forces of fortune and misfortune, which move swiftly and ceaselessly. Sons, wives, and wealth—these are mere creations of the mind, like a conjured elixir, and none of them can offer true help at the end, when only the most delightful poison remains. When a person, afflicted by sorrow and facing the poisonous end of bodily life, reflects upon his experiences—empty of real value—he is inwardly consumed by the fire of old age. Having spent his days first in pursuit of pleasure, wealth, and virtue—whose fruits are thin and uncertain—his mind remains restless, fluttering like a peacock’s feather. How then can such a person ever find true rest? The fruits of action, as varied as the waves of a surging river, sometimes remain unattained despite great effort; all comes about by fate. Thus, the world, with its endless flavors, seems to mock our striving. All these acts, thought to be endlessly delightful, wear out the mind through the repeated pleasures and pains of birth and death, until old age brings exhaustion at last. Just as the leaves of a tree gather and then quickly fall away, so too do people without discernment come together, only to part after a few days—each departing to who knows where. After wandering far and wide, returning home at day’s end, those whose days are spent without the company of the wise or good deeds find no restful sleep. People enjoy their prosperity and pleasures as long as enemies are kept at bay and fortune smiles upon them—until, inevitably, death arrives unannounced. Enticed by fleeting, trivial thoughts that arise from nowhere and vanish in an instant, people do not know whether what has come is truly theirs or not. Those who strive to escape the jaws of time, performing actions with effort yet bound by misfortune, find themselves trapped in the body, even when they forcibly attain bodily strength. The restless multitude of the world comes and goes ceaselessly, like unstable waves that break in a moment. Many things in this world seem intent on taking life: the mind, which steals delight; women whose restless eyes are like bees upon red petals; and poisonous creepers from venomous trees—all bring harm. The bonds of relationship—wife, friend, business—are formed in vain, tied together by fleeting emotions, and are but illusions in the play of human dealings. The true nature of things is not discerned in the flickering or steady glow of lamps, nor in food consumed with attachment; likewise, the reality is not recognized amidst the ever-changing illusions of worldly existence. Yet, this tumultuous whirlpool of worldly life, though as fragile as bubbles in the rain, forms a lasting conviction in the inattentive mind. Splendor and brilliance have faded under affliction; virtues have decayed and comfort has fled, like lotuses in the chill of winter. Again and again, fate strikes the body with harm—much like a tree repeatedly struck by axes, comfort finds no place there. Even the delightful become disturbed when faults arise within, just as contact with a poisonous tree brings faintness. Where are those forms without fault, those directions without burning pain, those people who are not fragile? What actions are there whose names are not mere illusions? Even those called Brahmas, whose lives span but a moment of a kalpa, cannot count the multitude of kalpas. In this net of time, divided and full of change, thoughts of shortness or length have no foundation. Everywhere, mountains are made of stone, the earth of clay, trees of wood; people are formed of flesh and bound by their humanity—nothing here is new, nothing escapes change. All that is seen, pervaded by consciousness, is but an aggregate bound by water, existing in space, divided by fortune and circumstance; this is the world—there is nothing else. Astonishment is found in the world of the mind, a wonder born within people. Even in dreams, this marvelous form does not appear to some, no matter the object. Today, among those untouched by even a trace of greed, a tale of noble deeds does not arise—just as a sky-creeper bears no fruit of greatness. Desiring the state of the noble, the world today, hindered only by its own mind, plummets without hesitation—like a beast leaping from a mountain peak in longing for a blue creeper leaf. Like trees growing in a chasm, whose inner branches and fruits are confined and useless, so too are the riches of the body and the people themselves. People move among the gentle and beautiful, then among the fierce—just as black antelopes wander between different forest groves. Each day, new and terrifying or delightful tasks arise, unsettling all, the bitter fruit of past actions ripening; yet, these do not astonish the minds of the deceitful. People are attached to desires, intent on various wicked arts, and even in dreams, a good person is rare in this world today. Because suffering is woven into all actions, and certainty is nowhere to be found, one wonders how this condition called life is to be lived. Whatever is seen in this world, whether moving or unmoving, is unstable, O Brahman—like the fleeting meetings in a dream. What appears today as a dry, sunken ocean may, by morning, become a mountain shrouded in clouds. That mountain, vast and unshakable, touching the sky, may within days become level with the earth or sink into a pit. The body that today is adorned with silk garlands and fragrant ointments—tomorrow, that very body lies far away, exposed to the elements in a deserted place.