O Rama, listen closely to the wondrous nature of reality. At the heart of all existence lies the vibration of pure consciousness—this alone is the essence underlying everything, always present and unchanging. From this consciousness, creation emerges, just as the perception of duality arises from the very act of seeing. All the manifold visions of creation ultimately return to and merge in consciousness itself; whether they seem to exist within it or apart from it, they are like rays streaming from the moon, never truly separate. This so-called cycle of worldly existence, or samsara, never truly exists at any time. Within the all-powerful, infinite reality, there is the inherent capacity for a state beyond samsara. Yet, this world is never without its inherent nature either, for within that same reality lies the potential for samsara as well. If one were to look upon the expanse of time—even up to a great aeon—and see it as devoid of samsara, then it would be reasonable to say that samsara does not exist now. For those blessed with the vision of true knowledge, all this is indeed seen as Brahman alone, and thus the absence of samsara is realized. But for those whose vision is clouded by ignorance, the continuous experience of samsara makes this illusion seem eternal—this too is established. Because the world is repeatedly conceived and imagined, it never lacks this nature; thus, the descriptions of the world, O Rama of the Raghu line, are not false. If one looks to the directions where all things fall and perish, one sees that this entire world is indeed perishable. Yet, seeing the directions where the sun and moon always rise and the mountains stand firm, it is just as reasonable to say that this world is imperishable. In truth, nothing exists outside that one all-pervading Self; the web of imagined distinctions does not arise in the nameless reality. Again and again, this cycle repeats: birth and death, joy and sorrow, actions performed by the senses. Hopes arise once more, the sky returns, the oceans and mountains reappear; creation unfolds again, as constant as the sun’s radiance. The gods and demons rise again, the journey through worlds resumes, and once more there is heaven, liberation, earthly realms, Indra, and the moon. Again, Nārāyaṇa appears, as do the sons of Manu and others; hopes are rekindled, the moon and sun move across the sky, Varuṇa and the wind stir once more. The earth and sky, like a blossoming lotus with Mount Meru as its stalk and the stars as its filaments, arise again in fullness. The sun, its rays sharp as a lion’s claws, strides through the sky to shatter the dense darkness, like a lion among elephants. The moon, with its lovely, trembling beams, brings nectar-like delight, adorning the quarters of the sky as if they were brides. From the heavenly tree, when the wind of exhausted merit blows, the fruits of good deeds fall to earth, their limbs shaken. The bird of time, with the wings of action and its results—the very beginning of worldly existence—makes a slight flutter and departs. When the Indra-like bee, having tasted the 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 mud in the clear ocean. The potter of time shapes the vessel of beings anew, and the wheel of time turns swiftly and ceaselessly. The world, as the end of an age approaches, becomes devoid of essence, its auspiciousness destroyed, like a forest dried up. When the hosts of suns and fires burn up all bodies at the end of time, the world, filled with the bones of all beings, becomes like a cremation ground. Then, torrents from the whirlpools of mountain-like lotuses flood the world, and with foaming ashes dancing, the earth becomes a single vast ocean. When the winds and waters are stilled, and all is emptied, the world returns to utter emptiness, as if space itself were new and unprecedented. After enjoying a few moments of equanimity, life itself is worn out and dissolves into the supreme Self, just as a worn-out body falls away. But soon, after some time, the mind projects forth the multitude of worlds into the void, just as a celestial musician conjures a city in the sky. Again the cycle begins: creation arises, dissolution follows—all of this, O Rama, revolves ceaselessly like a turning wheel. In this grand spectacle of great illusion, with its long and wondrous display, what, when examined, can truly be called real or unreal? This cycle of worldly existence is like a tale about a servant—its forms are shaped by imagination, but in truth, it is devoid of substance. It spreads out without interruption, made by the power of imagination—forms conjured by unreality, like the illusion of seeing two moons. What is created by unreality is not real—so why should there be confusion about this world? When people are absorbed in endless actions, their minds clouded by the pursuit of pleasure and power, they do not perceive the truth; in such a state, the deluded fail to see reality. But those who have gone beyond the intellect, who are not ruled by the senses, behold this worldly illusion as clearly as one sees a fruit in the palm of the hand. When the discerning soul perceives this illusion, he abandons identification with the ego, just as a serpent sheds its skin. Having thus attained detachment, he is not born again; even if he remains long in the body, he is like a seed scorched by fire—incapable of sprouting anew. The ignorant strive for the welfare of the body, afflicted by ailments and destined for destruction, yet neglectful of the Self. You, too, O Rama, should not, like the ignorant, labor for bodily aims that bring only suffering; instead, be devoted solely to the Self. This cycle of worldly existence is like the tale of Dāśūra—constructed by imagination, devoid of substance. What more need be said, O Lord?