She, the power of illusion, weaves her enchantments like the city of the gandharvas—unreal yet so alluring, always arranging reversals and confounding the mind. Her subtle gestures captivate, her grand designs delight, and again and again she casts forth a flickering light, like lightning that dazzles and vanishes. O Brahman, the enchantment of samsara glimmers and dances before us, ever shifting, never still. All those days we cherished, the riches we gathered, the actions we performed—each has slipped away, fading into the realm of memory. We ourselves are but travelers, departing in a moment, leaving behind what once seemed so real. Each day, this world declines, only to arise anew the next; yet for this body, worn and ruined, the burnt-out cycle of samsara seems endless. Humans are born as animals, animals rise to humanity, and even the gods lose their divinity—what, O Lord, remains constant in this ever-turning world? The sun, with its rays, weaves day and night, hurrying through time toward its own end. Brahma, Vishnu, Rudra, and all beings are drawn toward destruction, just as rivers rush to meet the submarine fire. The sky, the earth, the wind, the space, mountains, rivers, and all directions—everything is but dry fuel for the fire of dissolution. Wealth, relatives, servants, friends, possessions—all lose their flavor for one who fears annihilation. The pleasures of the world delight the wise only as long as they linger in memory, before the demon of destruction arrives. Prosperity appears for a moment, then poverty; health glimmers, then illness; at every turn, this great illusion brings reversal. Who, even among the wise, is not bewildered by the world’s delusion? For a moment, the sky is soiled by darkness; for another, it glows with gentle golden light. Sometimes it is adorned with garlands of blue lotuses and clouds, sometimes it resounds with tumult, sometimes it stands silent and mute. At times, it sparkles with stars, at others, the sun adorns it, or the moon gladdens it—then, suddenly, all is cast away. With such constant coming and going, with existence and destruction ever entwined, who in this world does not feel fear, even the wise? Calamity comes for a moment, fortune for another; birth and death are but passing moments. O sage, what here is not fleeting? What was before is gone; what is now has newly arisen with the passing of days. Even what appears constant is never firmly established. We see a cloth as a pot, and the pot’s existence in the cloth; what is not seen does not exist—thus, the cycle of being is reversed. Heroes are slain by cowards, a single one overcomes a hundred, and the ordinary rise to power—everything in the world turns in cycles. Confusion reigns, driven by restless agitation and grasping, like endless waves upon the sea. Childhood lasts only a few days before youth’s glory arrives, then old age follows; even the body changes, like a piece of wood tossed among other objects. For a moment, joy; for a moment, sorrow; for a moment, gentleness—the mind is an actor, playing every role. From here to there, from one place to another, fate creates and destroys without tiring, like a playful child. It gathers, excites, consumes, destroys, strikes, and absorbs; the creator of this world acts through countless rises and falls. In a moment, everything changes; in a day, in a morning—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 again and again. Here, sorrows are constant, pleasures are rare; like day and night, they ceaselessly revolve 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, lingering as the remnant of wickedness—like a trace of dark time shaken off carelessly. The streams of results from the succession of beings in the three worlds, with their differing fruits of pleasure and pain, are struck down each day by the winds of time, falling from the trees of ever-spreading transmigration. Thus, when the great mind is scorched by the fire of discernment, desires for enjoyment do not arise—just as mirages do not appear in real lakes. Day by day, the cycle of worldly existence grows ever more bitter, like the taste of neem intensified by time. O King, in the hearts of people, harshness increases and goodness fades each day, as if in a grove of rough karañja trees. Boundaries on earth are shattered in every direction, like dry bean pods splitting open with a harsh crack. Even kings, though they possess kingdoms and heaps of pleasures, are full of cares; better is a solitary mind, free from the buds of anxiety. My garden no longer brings me joy, my wealth does not make me happy; desires for gain no longer delight me—I am at rest in my mind. The world is impermanent and devoid of happiness, and thirst, dear one, is hard to bear; with a mind afflicted by restlessness, how can peace be found? I do not welcome death, nor do I welcome life; as I am, so I remain—free from feverish longing. What use is a kingdom to me, or enjoyments, or wealth, or ambitions? All these were under the sway of ego, and now, for me, that has fallen away.