Of the endless expanse of time, only a fleeting fragment is allotted to me in this world, and yet my thoughts are fixed upon that tiny sliver. Alas, shame upon me, for my mind is so base and narrow! How insignificant is this so-called kingdom I have enjoyed in my life—what is its true worth? Even without it, sorrow remains, and my mind is as ruined as before. At the beginning and the end, I am infinite, yet in the midst of life, I am frail and perishable. Like a child marveling at the painted moon, I stand firm in vain, clinging to illusions. This world, conjured by the magician of illusion, is but a net of maya, bewildering me at every turn—by whom have I been so thoroughly deluded? Whatever things seem delightful, noble, or genuine, none of these are truly found here. Upon what, then, should I fix my resolve? Whether things are far away or near, if they occupy my mind, I discern their emptiness and abandon all fixation on external objects. The very nature of the world is crooked and deceptive, fragile like a whirlpool of water, bringing sorrow even now—what happiness can be relied upon from such a world? Year after year, month after month, day by day, and moment by moment, pleasures are pierced by pain, and pains return again and again. No matter how often I examine, question, and observe this world, there is nothing here but hollowness—nothing in which the wise might find lasting refuge. Those who today stand at the summit of greatness fall in just a few days; when the mind’s grandeur is destroyed, how can one place trust in anything here? I am bound by a rope that is no rope, unstained yet tainted, 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 brilliance 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? It is I myself who bind myself to old age and death—why do I persist in clinging to possessions, which are laden with anxiety? Let prosperity come or stay—it has no hold over me, for like the beauty of a bubble, it is nothing but a false display. 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 trust can I place in anything here? The marks of Indra’s sovereignty have vanished like bubbles on water; the virtuous would laugh at me, who clings to life with hope. Millions of Brahmās have come and gone, the cycles of creation have passed, 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 folly. In vain, I have been overtaken by the demon of ego, arising 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 the subtle line of time? Though I see, I do not truly see. The lords, made into mere footstools, and the playful balls of Viṣṇu, have all been swallowed by Time the skull-bearer—why do I still take pride in myself? 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 for my base mind. Whatever things I have clung to firmly in thought, even those have perished; what, then, is excellent here to be seen? Whatever is delightful at any time—beginning, middle, or end—is tainted, impure, marked by the filth of destruction. Wherever a person fastens his attachment to objects, there and only there does he quickly experience intense suffering. Day by day, the dull-minded person enters ever more sinful, cruel, and distressing states in this world. Struck by ignorance in childhood, wounded by passion in youth, and later tormented by anxiety for his wife—what can the dull-witted person do, and when? Why does the mind, clouded by delusion, not see that worldly existence is tasteless due to constant coming and going, spoiled by the unevenness of circumstances, and lacking true essence? Even by performing hundreds of great sacrifices like the Rājasūya and Aśvamedha, one attains but a small portion of heaven for a great age, and nothing more. What is that place—whether in heaven, on earth, or in the netherworld—where these calamities do not assail, like wicked women? How can these afflictions and diseases—serpents from the cave of one's own mind, sprouting as shoots in the body—ever be prevented? Unreality stands atop reality, unpleasantness atop pleasant places, and sorrows atop happiness—so which one thing should I rely upon? Common, insignificant creatures are born and die; because of them, the earth remains without gaps—truly, noble and virtuous people are rare. Women, with eyes like blue lotuses and adorned with supreme love, exist only for amusement, remaining for but a fleeting moment. Those whose mere blinking and opening of eyes bring about the dissolution and creation of worlds—such people have come and gone; what significance is there in counting people like me? There are pleasures more delightful than the delightful, and things more stable than the stable; but what is the value of such prosperity, which inevitably ends in anxiety?