Apart from the supreme blissful state and its repose, the mind of the great-souled is tormented here by restless thoughts, much like wild dogs in the forest harassing the body of a creature barely alive. In this fragile body, which hangs precariously like a droplet on the moving leaf of a tall tree, governed by the lord of life and softened by the rays of the cool moon, the creature finds itself in gatherings of friends and relatives, yet remains as delicate as the edge of a frog’s throat skin in a dried-up field, caught in the circle of a net. Driven by the winds of past impressions, sudden calamity strikes like a thunderbolt, and in the dense cloud of delusion, darkness roars and flashes. The wild, restless, greedy one dances a fierce, resounding dance in the poisonous forest of misfortune, fully blossomed in its intensity. Cruel as the cat of death, it seizes all living beings like mice, moving with unheard steps, descending from somewhere above. What remedy, what path, what thought, or what refuge is there? By what means might this forest of life, which leads to misfortune, not arise? Yet, nothing on earth or among the gods in heaven, however insignificant, fails to become delightful to the wise. Still, how can this world, riddled and burned with suffering, ever become truly sweet without folly, when it is tasteless by its very nature? By what nectar-bath could the vine of hope, poisoned at its root, become delightful, like a fresh creeper with honey and pure blossoms? By what washing can the moon of the mind, stained by desire, be cleansed so that the radiance of immortality may arise? By what means should one act in the forest-paths of worldly life, seeing the course of the world and the destruction of the seen and unseen? How do the great diseases of attachment and aversion, born from indulgence, not afflict the creature wandering in the forest of worldly existence? And how is it that, even when one falls into the fierce fire of enmity, one is not burned—like gold in fire, protected by its essence? Indeed, in this world, without the activity of worldly dealings, no stability is possible—just as water cannot remain when it falls into the ocean. Those free from attachment and aversion, untouched by pleasure and pain, are like a flame without fuel; here, no proper action remains. For the proud mind that constantly reflects, suffering in the three worlds does not end without skillful means; tell me that, O noble ones. By what reasoning does suffering not come to one engaged in worldly activity? Or else, tell me the highest path for one who abandons activity. How, by whom, or by what means, has the mind of the noble attained its supreme, pure rest in the past? O revered one, as you know, tell me for the removal of delusion—by what means have you sages attained freedom from suffering? O Brahman, if such a method does not exist, or if no one tells me clearly, even though it is present, and I myself do not attain that supreme rest, then, having abandoned all desires, I become free from ego. I will not eat, nor drink water, nor wear clothes; I will not engage in any activity such as bathing, giving, or eating. I will not remain involved in actions, whether in prosperity or adversity; I desire nothing except the abandonment of the body, O sage. Simply, without fear, without possessiveness, free from envy, I will remain silent here, as if assigned to writing tasks. Then, gradually abandoning awareness of inhalation and exhalation, I will renounce this arrangement called the body, which is useless. I am not of this body, nor is it mine; I become calm like a lamp without oil. Having abandoned everything, I will renounce this body. Thus spoke Rama, radiant with pure, cool hands, his mind expanded by great discernment. He became silent before the great ones, like a blue-throated bird resting after its cry among the clouds. As these words, which dispel the delusion of the mind, were spoken to Rama, whose eyes are like lotus petals, that royal youth—all those present became wide-eyed with wonder, their garments held in place, their bodies as if raised to hear the words. Freed from all worldly impressions, with the residue of desires stilled, for a moment they seemed tossed by the waves of the nectar-ocean. Those words of Rāmabhadra, as if painted with wondrous colors, entered their ears, filling them within with abundant joy. Sages like Vasiṣṭha and Viśvāmitra, seated in the assembly, ministers led by Jayanta and Ghṛṣṭi, skilled in counsel, kings renowned like Daśaratha, citizens, bards and reciters, nobles, princes, and brāhmaṇas versed in the Veda—all heard. Likewise, servants and ministers, birds in their cages, playful deer now motionless, and horses who had ceased to graze listened. Women led by Kausalyā stood at their windows, their ornaments silenced, themselves motionless in groups. Creepers dwelling in gardens, monkeys in their abodes, and flocks of undisturbed birds, silent in song, bore witness. Siddhas who move through the sky, Gandharvas and Kinnaras, and the foremost sages such as Narada, Vyasa, and Pulaha, as well as lords of gods, lords of Vidyadharas, and mighty serpents—all heard those wondrous, noble words of Rama. Then, as Rama, lotus-eyed and as beautiful as the moon in the sky of the Raghu lineage, stood in silence, the entire assembly was enveloped in awe and stillness, holding the moment sacred.