Overcome by the demon of ego, I have been caught in its snare—the persistent, false idea that “This is me, I am this.” Like a fool, I have been destroyed by its grip. Again and again, my life has been stolen by the subtle and relentless line of time; though I witness its passing, I do not truly see. Even the mighty lords, reduced to mere footstools or playful toys for Viṣṇu, have all been swallowed by Time, the skull-bearer. Why, then, do I still cling to pride in myself? Days come and go ceaselessly, yet not even today have I glimpsed the one imperishable, real thing. Pleasures alone flicker within the minds of all people, like the essence shimmering in a lake, but fleeting visions of trivial things do not last. I have reached what is more painful than pain, fallen into suffering greater than suffering, and yet—shame on me—I remain attached, my mind base and undetached. Whatever things I have firmly clung to in thought, even those solid things have perished. What, then, is truly excellent here to be seen? Whatever is delightful—at the beginning, in the middle, or at the end—all is impure, tainted by the filth of destruction. Wherever a person binds his attachment to objects, there he quickly experiences intense suffering. Day by day, a dull person falls further 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 the dull-witted person do, and when? Why does the mind, clouded by delusion, not see that worldly existence is tasteless—spoiled by the coming and going, by the unevenness of circumstances, and lacking any true essence? Even by performing hundreds of sacrifices, such as the Rājasūya and Aśvamedha, one gains only a small portion of heaven for a great age, and nothing more. Where, whether in heaven, on earth, or in the netherworld, do calamities 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, keeping the earth without gaps; noble and virtuous people are truly rare. Women, with eyes like blue lotuses and adorned with supreme love, exist only for amusement, remaining for but a fleeting moment. Those whose blinking and opening of eyes bring about the dissolution and creation of worlds 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 value is there in such prosperity, which ends in anxiety? If various kinds of wealth are accepted by the mind, then even those great undertakings are truly great misfortunes. If various kinds of misfortunes are accepted in the mind, then even those great undertakings are forms of prosperity. In this world, which is but a transformation of mind and as fragile as a drop of water, where is the notion of “this is mine,” and from 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 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 almost sweet by comparison. I too, afflicted by distress, have become like those ignorant ones who are 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. I consider that sprout to be nothing but thought-formation; by the cessation of thought, I will dry it up, so that the tree of worldly existence withers away. Now, having recognized the monkey-like movements of the mind, which are charming only in appearance, I no longer delight in these tasteless things. The cycles of worldly existence, woven with hundreds of cords of desire and fraught with repeated falls and misfortunes, have been experienced by me; now I shall desist. Again and again I lamented, “Alas, I am ruined, I am lost, I am dead”; but now, having grieved, I am finished with it—I do not mourn any longer. I am awakened, I am delighted, and I have seen the thief—my own self. I shall slay this one called “mind”; for long I have been slain by the mind. For all this time, the fruit of freedom from mind remained unpierced for me; now, having pierced it, it truly deserves to be enjoyed. My mind, like a particle of frost, will surely soon dissolve in the sunlight of discernment, bringing lasting peace. I have been well awakened by the wise, the virtuous, and the accomplished; I follow my own self, the means to supreme bliss. Having found and beheld my own self, the jewel, in solitude, I abide in happiness, like a spotless autumn cloud with all its lightning spent. Casting aside by force the false notions of “I am this,” “this is mine,” and the like, I slay the exceedingly impure enemy, the mind, and attain peace. Salutations to you, discernment.