In this world, the fruits of actions are as unpredictable and varied as the waves of a surging river. Sometimes, no matter how hard one pursues them, they remain unattainable, for fate alone brings them forth. Thus, the world, with all its differing tastes and pursuits, seems almost to mock those who strive within it. People engage in countless deeds, believing them to be endlessly delightful, but these very actions wear out the mind through the alternating pleasures and pains of birth and death. Eventually, old age arrives, bringing exhaustion and weariness. Human beings, lacking discernment, come together like the leaves of trees gathering in the wind, only to quickly fall away and scatter—each departing after a brief time, journeying to destinations unknown. After wandering far and wide, people return home at the end of the day. Yet, if their days are spent in actions devoid of the company of the wise or the performance of good deeds, they find no restful sleep. As long as enemies are kept at bay and prosperity flourishes, people enjoy their pleasures—but all of this lasts only until death, which arrives without warning. The minds of people are enticed by fleeting and trivial states, which arise from nowhere and vanish in an instant. Caught in this flux, they do not know whether what has come to them is truly theirs or not. Some, desiring to escape the relentless jaws of time, strive with effort in their actions. Yet, if bound by unfortunate deeds, even when they gain bodily strength, they remain trapped within the confines of the body. This restless multitude of beings comes and goes ceaselessly, like unstable waves that form and break in a moment. Many things in this world seem intent on taking life: the mind, which steals delight; women whose restless eyes resemble 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, arising here and there, tied together by fleeting feelings. They are but the illusion of social dealings among men. Just as the true nature of things is not revealed in the flickering or steady light of lamps, nor in the states of food consumed with great attachment, so too is reality not recognized in the moving and unmoving illusions of worldly existence. This tumultuous whirlpool of samsara, though fragile like bubbles in the rain, establishes a firm conviction in the inattentive mind. Splendor and brilliance have faded due to affliction; virtues now decay, and comfort has fled far from people, like lotuses in winter. Time and again, by the force of fate, harm befalls one’s own body. Where a tree is repeatedly struck by axes, what place is there for comfort? Even for those who are delightful, when excessive faults arise within, disturbance follows—just as one who associates with a poisonous tree is overcome by faintness. Where is there a form without faults? Where are the directions free from burning pain? Who among people is not fragile? What actions are there that are not, in the end, mere illusion? Even those called ‘Brahmas,’ whose lives last but a moment of a kalpa, cannot count the multitude of kalpas. In this net of time, full of endless divisions, thoughts of shortness or length are unfounded. Everywhere, mountains are made of stone, earth is of clay, trees are only wood, and people are formed of flesh, bound by their humanness—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 countless divisions and the fortune of objects, this is the world—there is nothing else at all. Astonishment is found only in the world of the mind, as wonder produced within people’s thoughts. Even in dreams, O noble one, this marvelous form does not appear to some, in regard to any object. Today, among those untouched by even a trace of greed, a tale composed of noble deeds does not arise—just as a creeper in the sky does not bear fruit. Desiring to attain the state of the noble, the world, hindered only by its own mind, falls without hesitation—like a beast leaping from a mountain peak, longing for a blue creeper leaf. Like trees in a chasm whose inner branches, shadows, leaves, fruits, and flowers are all confined within, so too are the riches of the body today, and so too are people themselves. Sometimes, people move among the gentle and beautiful; at other times, among the fierce—just as black antelopes wander through the endless intervals between different forest groves. Every day, new and terrifying or delightful tasks arise from the ripening of bitter fruits of action, unsettling all people. 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 today. Because of the association with suffering, all actions are truly uncertain and troubled—indeed, it is difficult to know how this condition called life is to be lived. Whatever is seen in this world, whether moving or unmoving, O Brahman, all of it is unstable—like a meeting in a dream. What appears today as a dry ocean, sunken and visible, by morning becomes a mountain covered with clouds. That mountain, vast with forests and reaching the sky, unshakable—within days, it becomes level with the earth or sinks to the state of 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. Where today a city bustles with varied and restless activities, in that very place, within days, a desolate forest or barren plain arises. The man who today is powerful and rules over kingdoms—within days, he becomes a heap of ashes. That terrifying wilderness, vast as the sky and covered with banners, itself becomes a city. That formidable stretch of forest, thick with creepers and shining today—within days, it turns into a desert land. Water becomes land, and land turns into water; everything in the world—wood, water, and grass—constantly changes places. Youth, childhood, the body, and accumulations of wealth—all are impermanent, passing ceaselessly from one state to another, like waves. Life in this world is as restless as the flame of a lamp disturbed by the wind; the splendor of objects in the three worlds flashes like lightning. The multitude of elements in existence undergoes constant transformation, like a heap of seeds sprouting again and again. The mind, stirred by the winds of desire, scatters the dust of countless elements, adorned with the drama of calamities and reversals, and the display of fortune and misfortune. This worldly existence, born of delusion, is perceived as a state—like a dancer’s performance unfolding, so the actress of samsara begins her dance, captivating all who witness her.