How strange it is, truly, that people are deceived by one whose very self is destroyed, who possesses nothing genuine, whose body is already burnt out and hollow. Just as a drop of water from a great waterfall falls away and vanishes in a matter of days, so too does this frail body—this leaf of flesh—drop away with almost no effort at all. The body, which does not endure for long, is like a bubble upon the vast ocean: it drifts here and there, restless and vain, engaged in endless, fruitless activities. Within this body, subject as it is to the distortions of false knowledge and the confusion of dream-like delusion, and so clearly destined to perish, I do not place my trust—not even for a moment, O twice-born one. Only he who seeks stability in a flash of lightning, in the fleeting shapes of autumn clouds, or in the illusory cities of the Gandharvas—only such a person would ever trust in the body. Having abandoned this wretched body, which is like straw—full of faults, always defeated by the succession of fragile actions, and ever behaving deceitfully—I remain, at last, happily established in my true nature. But consider the beginning of this journey: Even after taking birth in the ocean of worldly existence, with its constant waves of burdensome duties and its fleeting forms, what does childhood bring but suffering? In childhood arise powerlessness, calamity, craving, muteness, dullness of intellect, greed, fickleness, and misery—these are the companions of the young. Childhood is a kind of bondage, chaining one with states of anger, weeping, cruelty, and the weariness of suffering, as if shackled like elephants with heavy chains. The worries that tear at the heart in childhood cut more deeply than those of death, old age, sickness, misfortune, or even the passions of youth. The restless, animal-like behavior of children—scorned by all—brings a suffering even greater than death itself. Whose mind, torn and wounded as it is, could possibly find happiness in childhood, which is but a reflection of dense ignorance, unsteady with a thousand thoughts? Who, knowing the constant fear that arises at every step in childhood from dullness and darkness, would willingly face such distress? A child, absorbed in play and improper amusements, chasing vain pursuits and false hopes, falls into the greatest delusion and a powerful misfortune. Childhood, with its confusion of thoughts, improper entertainments, and endless, unattainable desires, is fit only for discipline—not for peace. All faults, bad conduct, difficult actions, and wicked intentions make their home in childhood, like crocodiles lurking in a deep pool. Those who, lacking discernment, claim that childhood is delightful—may such foolish, deluded people, O Brahman, be condemned. Where the mind is restless, flitting from one distraction to another, even the sovereignty of the three worlds could not bring satisfaction. For all beings, at every stage of life, the mind is unsteady; but in childhood, O sage, its fickleness is tenfold. The mind is by nature unsteady, and childhood is the very peak of unsteadiness; when these two come together, my dear, who can fathom the chaos within? Like the glances of women—flashing like lightning, garlanded with flames and waves—so too is fickleness learned, whether from childhood or from the mind. Childhood and the mind are always seen as brothers in their activities—constantly unstable in their very being. All wicked beings, all faults, and evil intentions thrive on childhood, just as people depend upon the wealthy. If a child does not obtain something new and pleasing each day, he falls into a swoon of poisonous agitation. Little by little, he is brought under control; little by little, he is disturbed again. The child delights only in what is impure, like a boy from the Kauleya tribe. Constantly tearful, with a muddy heart, the child is like scorched earth soaked by rain—dull and inert within. Frightened, focused on food, miserable, desiring whatever he sees, the child’s fickle mind and body exist only for suffering. Failing to obtain the objects he longs for in his imagination, the weak child, his mind tormented, suffers as if his very heart were being cut out. O sage, the sufferings of a child—whose aims are hard to achieve and who is pulled in many directions—are truly like no other’s. The child, strong only in fantasy, is constantly tormented in his mind, just as a forest is scorched by the summer sun. When the child enters the house of learning, he faces hardship as severe as a great serpent bound and threatened by uneven poisons. Childhood, with its feeble heart, is filled with endless false imaginings and fanciful desires, bringing only long-lasting suffering. Who, out of foolishness, would wish to eat cooked snow or seize the moon from the sky, expecting happiness from such impossible things? For one whose inner mind is powerless to ward off heat and cold, O great intellect, what difference is there between a child, a plant, or a tree? Children, like birds, always long to fly with wings, driven by hunger, and are constantly preoccupied with fear and food. In childhood, there is fear of teachers, mothers, fathers, people, and older children—childhood is truly a house of fear. For one whose hopes are continually thwarted by faults and who delights in folly, O great sage, childhood is never truly satisfying for anyone. Then, abandoning the misfortunes of childhood, a person whose hopes have been frustrated ascends to the tumultuous cloud of youth—only to fall once more. There, following the restless tendencies of his ever-capricious mind, the dull-witted one moves from suffering to even greater suffering. Overpowered by the demon of desire, which dwells in the cave of his own mind and creates endless confusion, he is rendered utterly helpless.