Those who turn away from the Lord, who dwells quietly in the cave of their own heart, and instead seek other deities, are like people who, having the precious Kaustubha gem in their very hand, throw it away and chase after ordinary jewels elsewhere. But truly, when one abandons all desires, a great fruit is attained: the tangled roots of poisonous desires are torn out completely. Yet, even when one has seen how hostile and deceptive worldly objects can be, if a foolish person again allows his mind to become attached to them, he is more pitiable than even a donkey. Therefore, again and again, one must destroy the senses—whether their agitation has arisen or not—with the thunderbolt of sharp discrimination, just as Hari shatters mountains with his divine weapon. Let the pure-hearted, through the power of tranquility, attain the happiness of utter peace; when the mind is calm and abides in its own true nature, supreme happiness endures for a long time. Thus it was that, having heard the songs sung by hosts of perfected beings, the king was suddenly overtaken by despair, just as the timid are seized by fear at the sound of battle. He returned to his household, his retinue following him like the swelling flood of the rainy season carrying trees along the riverbank toward the ocean. Arriving at his palace, he dismissed his entire retinue and, alone, ascended to his lofty chambers, like the sun rising to the mountain’s peak. But his mind was restless, fluttering like the wings of birds at dusk. Gazing upon the ways of the world, he lamented in his distress: "Alas, how grievous are these ever-changing states of the world! I am tossed about helplessly and in vain, like a stone among stones. Of the endless expanse of time, I live but a fragment, and upon that tiny sliver I fix my thoughts—shame on me, whose mind is so base. How small indeed is this so-called kingdom I have enjoyed! What is it truly worth? Even with it, I remain in sorrow, my mind ruined as before. In the beginning and end I am infinite, yet in the middle my life is frail; like a child marveling at a painted moon, why do I stand firm, clinging to this illusion? This world, constructed by the magician of illusion, is a net of magic; alas, I am bewildered—by whom have I been so thoroughly deluded? Whatever is delightful, noble, or genuine—none of that is truly found here; so, upon what should my resolve be fixed? Whether things are far away or near, if they occupy my mind, having discerned this, I abandon all fixation on external things. The world’s nature is crooked and deceptive, fragile like a whirlpool of water; even now it brings sorrow—so what reliance can there be on it for happiness? Year by year, month by month, day by day, and moment by moment, pleasures are pierced by pain, while pains return again and again. Again and again I have examined, seen, questioned, and observed—and found nothing here that is not hollow, nothing in which the wise might find abiding. Those who today are at the summit of greatness fall down in a few days; when the mind’s greatness is destroyed, how can you place your trust in this world? I am bound by a rope that is no rope, I am unstained yet tainted; I have fallen though I am above—alas, my own state is ruined. How has this delusion suddenly come upon me, even though I am wise? My vision is darkened, like the sun’s peak covered by a black cloud. What are these great enjoyments to me? Who are these relatives of mine? Like a child frightened by imaginary beings, by what am I disturbed? I myself bind myself to old age and death; why do I hold to this resolve regarding possessions, which is laden with anxiety? Let prosperity come or remain—what hold does it have over me? For, like the beauty of a bubble, it is falsely presented in this way. Those great riches and enjoyments, those dear and affectionate relatives—all have entered the realm of memory; what steadfastness is there even in the present? Where are the treasures of kings, or of Brahmās, or even the worlds themselves? All that was before has passed away; what is this trust I have? The marks of Indra’s sovereignty have vanished like bubbles on water; the virtuous will laugh at me, who clings to life with hope. Millions of Brahmās have passed away, the cycles of creation have gone; kings have departed like dust—what steadfastness do I have in life? If I place reliance in this empty delusion, this body-based confusion, which is like a bad dream in the night of saṃsāra, then let me be condemned for such a state. In vain, I have been overtaken by the demon of ego, which arises as the false notion ‘This is me, I am this’; like a fool, I am destroyed by it. Why has this life been stolen away, again and again, by this subtle line of time? Though I see, I do not see. The lords, made into mere footstools, and the playful balls of the wielder of the bow, Viṣṇu, have all been swallowed by Time the skull-bearer; why do you still take pride in me? Days come and go ceaselessly, even now; yet, not even today have I seen that one imperishable, real thing. Like the essence in a lake, pleasures alone flash within the minds of all people, but not those fleeting visions of trivial things. I have reached what is more painful than pain, and fallen into suffering greater than suffering; yet even now I am not detached—alas, shame on me with my base mind. Whatever things I have firmly clung to in thought, even those solid things have perished; what, then, is excellent here to be seen? Whatever is delightful in the middle, at the end, or at the outset—all of it is impure, tainted by the filth of destruction. Wherever a person fastens his attachment to objects, there, and only there, he quickly experiences intense suffering. Day by day, a dull person enters ever more sinful, ever more cruel, and ever more distressing states in this world.