Consider, O wise one, the city that stands bustling today, alive with countless activities and restless energy. In just a short span, that very place may become a desolate forest or a barren plain, its former glory vanished without a trace. The mighty ruler who commands kingdoms and wields power today, O King, will soon be reduced to nothing but a heap of ashes, his strength and grandeur fleeting. Yet, the cycle continues: the very wilderness, vast as the sky and once adorned with banners, transforms into a thriving city. Dense forests, thick with creepers and radiant in the sunlight, within days become arid wastelands. Water turns into land, and land sinks beneath the waves; all things in the world—wood, water, and grass—are ever shifting, exchanging places in an endless dance of change. Youth, childhood, the body itself, and the wealth we amass—none of these are permanent. They pass ceaselessly from one state to another, like the restless waves upon a shore. Life in this world flickers as unsteadily as a lamp’s flame disturbed by the wind, and the splendor of all objects in the three worlds flashes and disappears like a bolt of lightning. The elements that make up existence are in constant transformation, like seeds that sprout, die, and sprout again. The mind, stirred by unseen winds, scatters the dust of countless elements, weaving together the drama of calamities and reversals, fortune and misfortune. This worldly existence, born of delusion, appears as a fixed state, but in truth it is like the unfolding performance of a dancer—the actress of samsara beginning her dance. She, this dancer, conjures illusions as beguiling as a city of gandharvas, arranging reversals and enchanting with both subtle gestures and grand displays. Again and again, she spreads a flickering light like lightning, and the enchantment of samsara shines forth, dazzling like a dance. All that was—those days, those riches, those deeds—have slipped into the realm of memory, and we ourselves depart in a moment. Each day, decline follows renewal; even now, for this worn-out form, there is no end to the burnt-out cycle of samsara. Humans become animals, animals become human, even gods lose their divinity—what, O Lord, remains unchanged? The sun, weaving day and night with its rays, swiftly passes through time, ever approaching the limit of destruction. Brahma, Vishnu, Rudra, and all beings are drawn toward dissolution, like rivers pouring into the submarine fire. The sky, earth, wind, space, mountains, rivers, and the directions—all are but fuel for the fire of destruction. To one who fears annihilation, wealth, relatives, servants, friends, and possessions lose all flavor. The states of the world delight the wise only so long as they linger in memory, before the demon of destruction arrives. Prosperity comes for a moment, then poverty; health for a moment, then illness. With each passing instant, this great illusion brings reversal—who, even among the wise, does not become bewildered by the world’s delusion? For a moment, the sky is stained with darkness; for a moment, it glows with golden light. Sometimes it is adorned with garlands of blue lotuses and clouds, sometimes it resounds with tumult, and sometimes it stands silent. One moment it sparkles with stars, another it is bright with the sun, gladdened by the moon, and then all is cast into obscurity. With the supreme coming and going, with creation and destruction, who—no matter how wise—does not feel fear? Calamities arrive for but a moment, fortunes too; birth and death themselves are momentary, O sage—what is not fleeting? What was here before is gone, and something new arises with the passing of days. Even what appears uniform is not firmly established, O Lord. The cloth is seen as a pot, and the pot’s existence is perceived in the cloth; what is unseen does not exist, and so the cycle of existence turns back upon itself. Heroes may fall to cowards, a single one may overcome a hundred, and the ordinary may rise to power—everything in the world turns in cycles. The world constantly follows confusion, agitated and grasping, like a succession of waves. Childhood lasts only a few days before the glory of youth arrives, followed by old age; even the body does not remain the same, just as wood among other objects. For a moment, joy; for a moment, sorrow; for a moment, gentleness—the mind plays the actor in every scene. From here to elsewhere, again and again, fate creates and recreates tirelessly, like a child at play. Fate gathers, excites, consumes, destroys, strikes, and absorbs; the creator of the world acts through countless rises and falls. In a moment, things change; in a day, they change again; in the morning, something else—fate, skilled in deception, is seen by none. What is today is not tomorrow; what is tomorrow is not today; what is at another time is not today—everything turns and returns. Sorrows are continuous, pleasures are rare; like day and night, they revolve endlessly for each person. For those subject to birth and death, who come and go, neither misfortune nor fortune remains constant. From one step to the next, sin brings all into calamity; it lingers as the remnant of wickedness, shaken off carelessly like a trace left by dark time. Such is the ever-changing, bewildering play of existence—impermanent, uncertain, and ceaselessly turning.