This world, ever restless, is tossed about in confusion—its people caught in ceaseless agitation and grasping, like wave after wave chasing each other across the surface of the sea. Childhood, so brief, quickly gives way to the bright flush of youth, which is soon replaced by the decline of old age. Even the body does not remain the same, changing constantly, just as a piece of wood drifts among other objects in the world. Joy comes for a moment, then sorrow for another, and gentleness for yet another—the mind, like a skilled actor, dons many roles in the drama of existence. Fate, tireless as a playful child, moves things from here to there, always shifting them about. It gathers, excites, consumes, destroys, strikes, and absorbs; the creator of this world acts ceaselessly, through countless ups and downs. In an instant, everything changes; from morning to evening, from one day to the next, something new arises—fate, master of illusion, is invisible to all. What is present today will not be tomorrow; what comes tomorrow is not here today; at every turn, all things are in flux, endlessly repeating their cycles. Here, sorrow is a constant companion, while pleasure is rare—like day and night, they revolve ceaselessly for each person. For those subject to birth and death, coming and going, neither misfortune nor fortune remains constant in life. With each step, sin drags all into calamity; it lingers as a remnant of past wrongdoing, shaken off carelessly like a trace of darkness from ancient times. The streams of karma, born from the succession of lives across the three worlds, ripen into pleasure and pain in various ways, only to be swept away each day by the winds of time, like leaves torn from the ever-growing tree of transmigration. But when the great mind is scorched by the fire of discernment, longing for enjoyment does not arise—just as mirages do not appear on the surface of a real lake. Day by day, the cycle of worldly existence becomes increasingly bitter, like the taste of the neem tree growing harsher as time ripens it. O King, in the hearts of people, harshness grows while goodness withers, like a grove thick with rough karañja trees. Boundaries of the earth are shattered in all directions, like dry bean pods splitting open with a harsh crack. Even kings, who possess kingdoms and heaps of enjoyments, are full of cares. It is better to be solitary, free from the budding anxieties that come with attachments. My garden brings me no joy, my wealth no happiness; even the prospect of gain does not delight me—my mind is at rest. The world is impermanent and devoid of true happiness, and the thirst for pleasure is hard to endure. With a mind afflicted by restlessness, how can I find peace? I do not welcome death, nor do I welcome life; I remain as I am, free from feverish longing. Of what use to me are kingdoms, enjoyments, wealth, or ambitions? All these were governed by ego, but now that has fallen away. The bonds of the senses are strong in the cycle of repeated births; only those who strive to free themselves from these attachments are truly noble. My mind has been crushed by the proud and fickle people of the world, just as a tender lotus is bruised by the trampling of an elephant’s hoof. O great sage, if today the mind is not healed with sound understanding, when will there be another chance for its treatment? Poison is not truly poison—the discord of sense-objects is the real poison. Sense-objects destroy across many lives, while ordinary poison destroys only one body. Neither pleasure nor pain, neither friends nor relatives, neither life nor death bind the mind of the wise. O best among those who know past and future, O Brahman, instruct me swiftly so I may become like that sage—free from sorrow, fear, and toil. The forest of ignorance is tangled with the net of tendencies, crowded with the thorns of suffering, dense with pitfalls and calamities, and terrifying in its appearance. O sage, I am able to endure the fierce torment of worldly dealings—like being crushed by a sharp saw, I bear the poison and distress. This delusion—people saying ‘this is not, this is’—shakes the fickle mind as the wind scatters a heap of dust. The collection of lives, strung together by the threads of craving, is like a pearl whose luster is the reflection of consciousness, forever leading the mind. I will tear apart the merciless net of worldly existence—this disgust, the necklace of the serpent of time—just as a lion breaks free from a snare. O knower of reality, with a lamp of knowledge, swiftly dispel the mist in the forest of my heart, the darkness of my mind. O great soul, those who possess the highest minds are not afflicted by misfortunes; just as sharp flesh is not diminished by the moon’s rays, so too are the noble undisturbed by adversity. Life is fragile, like a cluster of lotuses shaken by the wind; pleasures are as fleeting as lightning in the clouds; youth, affection, and the waves of desire are all unsteady. Realizing this, I have fixed my mind firmly, like a seal set on a mountain, seeking lasting peace. Seeing the world sunk in the pit of suffering, crowded with calamity, my mind is immersed in the mire of anxious thoughts. It wanders in confusion, agitation arises, and my limbs tremble like the leaves of an old tree. My understanding, deprived of supreme contentment, is disturbed; it fears emptiness, like a child-king with little strength. The movements of my inner faculties are tossed about by doubts, like deer mocked by empty wells. Fallen from the ground of discernment, established in hardship and not on the good path, my senses—sight and others—are like the unfortunate fallen into a blind well. Worry neither settles nor proceeds as I wish; it depends on the lord of life, like a beloved woman in an unwelcome house.