Listen, O noble one, as the wise have revealed: what we call worldly existence is nothing but the expansion of the mind. This entire process of creation has been explained to awaken your understanding. From the purest, sattvic births onward, the unfolding of creation has been recounted so you may grasp its nature. Again and again, creation arises, dissolution follows; sorrow and joy take their turns, as do ignorance and the knowledge that dispels it, bondage and liberation. The creators themselves, sustained by the subtle bond of affection, emerge and vanish repeatedly—like lamps that shine for a while, then are extinguished, only to be lit once more. In the arising and passing of bodies, of lamps, and even of gods, when time releases its hold, there is no distinction in their dissolution—all are leveled in that end. The Krita, Treta, Dvapara, and Kali ages come and go, again and again, as the world turns ceaselessly on the wheel of time. The beginnings of Manvantaras and the succession of Kalpas repeat themselves, just as morning follows morning, day after day, in endless cycles of activity. Worlds and non-worlds, time and timelessness, all intervals—whether measured or immeasurable—rise and fall, endlessly repeating, yet ultimately, they are nothing. Within the unstruck, heated mass—like sparks in a lump of iron—these states perpetually exist in the vast space of consciousness, by their very nature. Sometimes unmanifest, sometimes manifest, all these things exist within the supreme reality, just as a tree reveals itself in its season. The vibration of consciousness alone is the essence of all, ever of this form; from it arises creation, just as duality is perceived by the eye. All continuous visions of creation merge back into consciousness, whether they seem to dwell within it or appear separate, like rays streaming from the moon. This so-called samsara—this cycle of worldly existence—never truly exists at any time, for within the all-powerful reality lies the capacity for its absence. Yet, O noble one, this world is never without such a nature either, for the all-powerful reality also holds the potential for samsara. If one considers even the span of a great aeon as devoid of samsara, then it is reasonable to say that samsara does not exist now. With the vision born of knowledge, all this is seen as Brahman alone, O wise one; thus, for us, the absence of samsara is established. But with the vision clouded by ignorance, the unbroken experience of samsara makes this illusion seem eternal—this too is established. Because it is repeatedly conceived, this world never lacks its particular nature; therefore, what is said about the world, O descendant of Raghu, is not false. Seeing the directions where all things fall and perish, it is clear that this entire world is perishable. Yet, seeing the directions where the sun and moon always rise and the mountains stand firm, it is equally fitting to say the world is imperishable. There is nothing that does not exist within that one, all-pervading Self; in the nameless, the web of imagined distinctions does not arise. Again and again, all this recurs: birth and death, happiness and sorrow, actions performed by the senses. Hopes arise anew, the sky returns, the oceans and mountains reappear; creation emerges once more, like the sun’s constant radiance. The demons return, the gods return, the progression through worlds resumes; once more there is heaven, liberation, earthly abodes, Indra, and the moon. Again, Nārāyaṇa appears, as do the sons of Manu and others; hopes awaken, the beautiful moving moon and sun shine anew, Varuṇa and the wind stir once more. The earth and sky reemerge, like a blossoming lotus with Mount Meru as its stalk and the stars as its filaments, swelling with fullness. The sun, with rays like lion’s claws, strides through the sky-forest again, shattering the darkness like a lion among elephants. The moon, with its trembling, lovely beams like mango blossoms, returns to bring nectar-like delight, adorning the quarters as if they were brides. From the heavenly tree, driven by the wind of exhausted merit, the fruits of good deeds fall to this world, their limbs shaken. With the wings of action and its results—the beginning of worldly existence—the bird of time flutters lightly and departs. When the Indra-like bee, having tasted royal pollen, departs, another lord of gods approaches the heavenly lotus. Time, once purified, is again corrupted by the age of strife, just as a swelling wind stirs up mud in the ocean, even when it is clear. The potter of time shapes the vessel of beings anew, and the wheel called time turns swiftly and ceaselessly. The world becomes devoid of essence, its auspiciousness destroyed, as the end of an age approaches, like a forest dried up. When the hosts of suns and fires burn up the bodies at the end of time, the world, filled with the bones of all beings, becomes like a cremation ground. By torrents from the swirling whirlpools of lotus-mountains, the world, with foaming ashes dancing, becomes a single ocean. When the winds and waters are stilled and all things emptied, the world returns to emptiness, as if space itself were unprecedented. Then, after a brief enjoyment, with the mind at rest in equanimity, life wears out and dissolves into the supreme Self, like a worn-out body. Yet once more, after some time, the mind projects the multitude of worlds into the void, just as a celestial musician conjures a city in the sky. Thus, creation begins again, dissolution follows, and all of this, O Rama, revolves repeatedly like a turning wheel.