Once again, when the Indra-like bee has tasted the royal pollen and departs, another lord of the gods approaches the heavenly lotus, continuing the eternal cycle. Time itself, once purified, becomes tainted anew by the age of strife, just as a clear ocean is muddied by a swelling wind. The potter of time shapes the vessel of beings, and the wheel named Time spins swiftly and ceaselessly. As the end of an age approaches, the world loses its essence and auspiciousness, becoming like a forest dried up and lifeless. The hosts of suns and fires consume all bodies at the end of time, leaving the world strewn with the bones of all beings, like a vast cremation ground. Then, torrents from the whirlpools of mountain-like lotuses flood the world, and with foaming ashes swirling, all becomes a single ocean. When the winds and waters are stilled, and everything is emptied, the world returns to utter emptiness, as if space itself had never existed. After a brief enjoyment, with the mind resting in equanimity, life itself is worn out and dissolves into the supreme Self, just as a worn-out body falls away. Yet, after some time, the mind projects once more the multitude of worlds into the void, just as a celestial musician conjures a city in the sky. Thus, creation begins again, followed by dissolution—again and again, O Rama, all of this turns ceaselessly like a wheel. In this grand spectacle of great illusion, with its endless display, O Rama, what can truly be called real or unreal, once it is examined? This cycle of worldly existence is like a tale about a servant: its forms are fashioned by imagination, but in truth, it is without substance. All this, spread out without interruption, is made by imaginations—forms conjured by unreality, like the illusion of two moons in the sky. What is created by unreality cannot be real—so why should there be confusion about this world? When people are engrossed in various actions and their minds clouded by enjoyment and the pursuit of power, they do not perceive the truth; at such times, the deceitful do not see it either. But those who have gone beyond the intellect and are not ruled by their senses see this worldly illusion as clearly as one sees a fruit in the hand. When the embodied soul, endowed with discernment, perceives this illusion, he abandons identification with the ego, just as a serpent sheds its skin. Having attained such detachment, he is not born again; even if he remains long in the body, he is like a seed that has been scorched by fire and cannot sprout. The ignorant, afflicted by ailments and destined for destruction, strive for the welfare of the body, but not for the Self. You too, O Rama, should not, like the ignorant, labor for the aims of the body, which brings 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? Now, Rama, listen as I narrate to you the story called Dāśūra, as an illustration and description of the true nature of the world's illusion. On this earth, there is a great and renowned land called Magadha, adorned with wondrous trees and flowers. Its expanses are filled with kadamba groves and palm-covered wilderness, and it is graced by flocks of marvelous birds—a land delightful to behold. The fields are thick with crops, city gardens embellish the landscape, and every riverbank is filled with lotuses, blue lilies, and water-lilies. The air resounds with the jingling of women’s ornaments as they play on garden swings, and the fragrance of night-blooming flowers fills the moonlit groves. On the slope of a certain mountain, thick with karṇikāra trees, in the shade of banana clusters and radiant with nīpa shrubs, partridges coo in the thickets, the water of waterfalls resounds, mango creepers bloom, and cuckoos sing melodious songs. There, wild tribal women play, the sky is veiled by palm leaves, and the ponds, filled with blooming lotuses, teem with living creatures. The wind stirs clouds of pollen from masses of flowers, tinged with saffron dust, and the cries of waterfowl echo over the autumnal lakes. In that noble and sacred mountain, amidst trees filled with wondrous birds, there dwelled a sage of supreme righteousness and great austerity. This sage was named Dashura, endowed with great ascetic discipline, who lived on the branch of a kadamba tree, free from passion and of great intellect. O venerable one, you may wonder why this ascetic sage dwelled in the forest, and how he came to reside on the branch of the great kadamba tree. His father was known as Sharaloma, renowned by that name, a sage like another Brahma, who lived on that very mountain. He had only one son, just as Kacha was to the preceptor of the gods, and together they spent their lives in the forest. After many ages had passed, Sharaloma departed, relinquishing his body and ascending to the abode of the gods, like a bird leaving its nest. In that forest, Dashura wept alone, bereft of his father, lamenting pitifully like a kurara bird deprived of its parent. Afflicted in his heart by the sorrow of losing his parents, he withered away, just as a lotus fades in the winter. Then, as the boy’s spirit languished in dejection, he was comforted in the forest by a forest deity whose form was unseen, O Rama. The deity spoke: “O son of a sage, great in wisdom, why do you weep like one ignorant? Do you not know the restless nature of worldly existence? O noble one, always is the worldly person thus; the cycle of existence is unstable: one is born, lives, and must inevitably perish.