Brahma, the creator, gazed upon his own radiant and supreme form, his vision pure and unclouded across past, present, and future. As he looked within, he began to reflect deeply. In this vast cave of space, on this shore sweet as honey, boundless and without visible end—he wondered—what was there in the very beginning? Immersed in contemplation, Brahma, newly arisen with a flawless perception of the Self, beheld countless cycles of creation that had already come and gone, fading into the depths of time. With this remembrance, all the Vedas arose in his awareness—complete in their sequences of duties and qualities—just as one recalls the blossoming of flowers in spring, each word and meaning effortlessly joined together. With ease, Brahma fashioned beings of many kinds, born from his very thoughts, each with their own customs and pursuits, as a Gandharva might conjure a city out of imagination. For their sake—for the attainment of heaven, liberation, and the fulfillment of duty, desire, and wealth—he composed innumerable wondrous scriptures. Thus, O Rama, this creation came into being and abides in this cycle, just as the splendor of flowers rests upon the coming of spring, all taking shape through the mind of Brahma. Through myriad arrangements and playful acts, by the mind manifesting as the lotus-born creator, the glory of creation has been established in this world in a way beyond compare. Yet, when all this is accomplished, nothing remains fixed or truly established; there is only the vast emptiness of space, the supreme play of the mind. In this expanse, neither place nor time exists anywhere within the cosmic egg, not even to the slightest degree, though it may appear immense and sky-like. This world is but the essence of thought, like a city seen in a dream; wherever it seems to appear, there is nothing but pure space. Even the construction of walls and their coloring, though seen, are not real; what is unmade seems made, a marvelous painting upon the sky. Everything—the body and the three worlds—are mere imaginations of the mind; this is the cause of transmigration, just as vision arises from the eye. The world is only an appearance, unfolding through pots, huts, and cloths; these do not exist as real things, nor are walls and such separately established. The body itself is fashioned by the mind as a dwelling, just as a worm spins its own cocoon. There is nothing that does not exist, nor any name, which the mind, slow in resolve, does not create or attain—even what is difficult or seemingly inaccessible. In the Supreme, who possesses all powers, what can truly be called a separate power? There are none; it is only through these apparent powers that the inner cave of the mind seems veiled. O mighty-armed Rama, the existence or non-existence of all things arises only because the all-powerful, all-pervading One is present. See how the lotus-born body of Brahma is attained solely through the mind’s imagination; therefore, know that all manifestation arises endowed with all power. Gods, demons, humans, and animals are created by their own thoughts at the beginning of creation; when those thoughts subside, they are extinguished, like lamps without oil. See, O great intellect, this world, which is like space, is merely an expansion of imagination—a long dream that has arisen. No one here is ever truly born or dies; in reality, all activity is illusory. Where nothing ever increases or perishes, what could possibly be destroyed there, just as in a forest made of lines drawn in the air? You do not see your own body, which is a product of delusion, with clear insight; O Raghava, with your heart afflicted by sorrow, why do you speak like one who is ignorant? Just as the mirage appears due to intense heat, so too, through the force of the mind, all these beings—even Brahma and the rest—are seen, though they are not real. All the forms in the world arise like the illusion of two moons or as fanciful daydreams, being entirely composed of false knowledge. Just as those riding in a boat mistakenly perceive stationary objects as moving, so too, the succession of forms always arises falsely, without reality. Know this to be a magical illusion, a cage woven by maya; it is a creation of the mind’s imagination, neither truly existent nor non-existent. This entire world is Brahman alone; where then is the possibility of otherness? What sort of connection could there be, who is that, and where does it abide? This mountain, this tree—such displays are mere illusions; due to the mind’s strong imagination, the unreal appears as if it were real. This world, with its fourfold expansion, is empty within; abandon the mind’s desires and thirst, and contemplate something else, O Rama. Just as in a dream, grand undertakings are mere delusion and not reality, so too, know this long dream to be a fabrication of the mind. Abandon the display of worldly existence, which is a treasury of desires like serpents, which appears as great enjoyment but is, when grasped, without substance. Knowing this to be unreal, establish your mind in mere awareness; who, having recognized a mirage, would pursue it, if wise? He who, deluded, follows the woman made of wishful thinking, rich in forms arising from his own imagination, becomes only a vessel of suffering. Let this world, in the absence of reality, go as it will toward the unreal; but he who abandons the real and pursues the unreal is destroyed. This is only the delusion of the mind, like fear of a snake in a rope; through the mere diversity of imagination, the world revolves for a long time. Here, only the child is deceived by states arising from unreality, like the flickering moon in water; not the knower of truth, like you. He who, contemplating this mass of qualities, seeks happiness, is indeed dull; he wipes away dullness in fire that does not reflect. This enjoyment is truly unreal; the cage of appearances is seen—a creation of mind and thought, like a city in the heart.