Bound by a rope that is no rope, I find myself caught in a paradox: unstained, yet somehow tainted; fallen, though my true nature is above it all. Alas, my own state feels ruined. How has this delusion come over me so suddenly, even though I am wise? My vision is clouded, as if the brilliant sun were hidden behind a black cloud. What, after all, are these great enjoyments to me? Who are these relatives I call my own? Like a child frightened by imaginary beings in the dark, by what am I disturbed in truth? I see now: it is I myself who bind myself to old age and death. Why do I cling to this anxious resolve regarding possessions, knowing it brings only worry? Let prosperity come or go—what hold does it truly have over me? It is as fleeting and insubstantial as the beauty of a bubble, falsely appearing real. Those riches and enjoyments, those dear and affectionate relatives—all have become mere memories. What steadfastness is there even in the present moment? Where are the treasures of kings, or even of the mighty Brahmās, or the worlds themselves? All that existed before has passed away—what is this trust I have in things so transient? The marks of Indra’s sovereignty have vanished like bubbles on water. The virtuous would surely laugh at me, clinging to life with such hope. Millions of Brahmās have come and gone; the cycles of creation have turned and passed away. Kings have departed like dust—what steadfastness do I have in this fleeting life? If I place reliance in this empty delusion, this confusion centered on the body—a bad dream in the long 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 my life been stolen away, again and again, by the subtle line of time? Though I see, I do not truly see. Even the mighty lords have been made into mere footstools or playthings for Viṣṇu, the wielder of the bow; all have been swallowed by Time, the skull-bearer. Why, then, 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 hidden 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, 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 clung to in thought, even those solid things have perished. What, then, is excellent here to be seen? Whatever is delightful—at the outset, in the middle, or at the end—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 falls into 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 such a dull-witted person do, and when? Why does the mind, clouded by delusion, not see that worldly existence is tasteless because of its coming and going, spoiled by uneven circumstances, and lacking any true essence? Even by performing hundreds of grand sacrifices like the Rājasūya and Aśvamedha, one gains only a small portion of heaven for a great age—and nothing more. What place is there, 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, 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 but a fleeting moment. Even those whose mere blinking and opening of eyes bring about the dissolution and creation of worlds—such beings have come and gone. What significance, then, 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 always ends in anxiety? If the various kinds of wealth are accepted by the mind, then even those great undertakings are, I think, truly great misfortunes. If the various kinds of misfortunes are accepted in the mind, then even those undertakings become all forms of prosperity. In this world, which is but a transformation of mind and as fragile as a drop of water, where is this unprecedented notion that “this is mine,” and where could there be a string of imperishable things? When the existence of the world arises by mere coincidence, the clever mind has vainly imagined the notions of acceptance and rejection. Among these limited, fragmented perceptions called pleasures, to which of them am I so attached—like a moth drawn to the tongues of flame? It would be better to writhe in the fires of hell, consumed entirely, than to remain in the torn and battered cycles of worldly existence. It is said that worldly existence is truly the boundary of all sufferings; how could one who has fallen into its midst ever find happiness here? Those who remain in this world of uncontrived, great suffering consider all other pains to be almost sweet by comparison. I too, afflicted by distress, have become like those ignorant ones—unmoved, remaining as if equal to wood or clods of earth, untouched by real substance. The sprout of this tree of worldly existence, with its thousand shoots, branches, fruits, and leaves, is formed from the root of the mind itself.