Listen, O Rama, and behold the wondrous nature of this world. What you see and experience is but the distilled essence of thought, much like a city glimpsed in a dream—wherever it appears, there is nothing but pure, infinite space. Even the walls you perceive, their colors and shapes, though so vivid to the senses, are not truly real; what is unmade seems made, like a marvelous painting cast upon the open sky. All things—the body, the three worlds themselves—are conjured by the mind’s imagination. This is the root of wandering from life to life, just as sight arises from the function of the eye. The world is but an appearance, unfolding in forms such as pots, huts, and cloths; yet these do not exist as real things, nor are walls and boundaries independently established. This body, too, is fashioned by the mind, merely as a dwelling, just as a worm spins its own cocoon. There is nothing, no name or form, no matter how difficult or remote, that the mind—though slow or wavering—cannot create or attain. In the Supreme, who holds all powers, what can truly be called a separate power? There are none; it is only through these imagined powers that the inner cave of the mind appears veiled. O mighty-armed one, the seeming existence or non-existence of all things arises only because the all-powerful, all-pervading One is present. Behold how even the lotus-born body is attained through the imagination of the mind. Therefore, know, O Rama, that all manifestation arises endowed with all power. Gods, demons, humans, and animals—each is created by its own thoughts at the beginning of creation. When those thoughts subside, they are extinguished, just as lamps go out when their oil is spent. See, O great intellect, this world, which is as subtle as space, is merely an expansion of imagination—a long dream that has arisen. No one here is ever truly born or dies; in reality, O wise one, all activity is but an illusion. Where nothing ever increases or perishes, what could possibly be destroyed, just as in a forest made of lines drawn in the air? You do not truly see your own body, which is a product of delusion, with clear insight. O Raghava, your heart is afflicted by sorrow—why do you speak as one who is ignorant? Just as a mirage appears in the desert due to intense heat, so too, through the force of the mind, all these beings—even Brahma and the rest—are perceived though they are not truly real. All forms in the world arise like the illusion of two moons or fanciful daydreams, composed entirely of false knowledge. Just as those riding in a boat mistakenly perceive stationary objects as moving, so too does the succession of forms always arise falsely, without true reality. Know this to be a magical illusion, a cage woven by maya—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 but delusions 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. It appears as great enjoyment, but when grasped, it is 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, being deluded, chases after 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 endlessly. Here, only the child is deceived by states arising from unreality, like the flickering moon reflected in water—not the knower of truth, like you. He who seeks happiness by contemplating this mass of qualities is indeed dull; he wipes away dullness in a 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. This world arises by the will of the mind and dissolves by that same will; it appears as a vast illusion, like a city conjured by celestial beings. Rama, when this world is lost, nothing at all is truly lost; even when this world seems to exist, nothing is truly established. When the city imagined by the mind is destroyed in the heart, which was its vast expanse, and if it is said to have grown, tell me—what has grown, for whom, and what has been harmed? Just as a city arises in the hearts of children for the sake of play, so too does this world arise ceaselessly in the mind. Nothing is lost for anyone, just as in the water of a magician’s illusion—so too, when this world, with its rise and fall, is lost or destroyed. If what is unreal is indeed unreal, then what loss or harm can there be for anyone? Therefore, this so-called world is not truly a ground for joy or sorrow. If something is utterly unreal, what indeed can be lost in it? In the absence of loss, O wise one, how can there be any occasion for suffering? Or if something is utterly real, what can be lost of it? This entire world is truly Brahman—what then is the cause of happiness or sorrow? In this world, which is entirely unreal and brings only destruction, what is there for the wise to desire or accept in the cycle of existence? Even in this world, which is entirely real and filled with the essence of Brahman, what could there be in the three worlds that the wise should reject or avoid? Thus, O Rama, see with clear vision the true nature of all things.