With but a sigh, as subtle as a breath, the beloved draws forth a creature—much like a serpent charmer lures a snake from its hidden hole, or as an elephant’s trunk pulls it out from darkness. So too, Desire, the cunning hunter, casts its nets for the unwary, and women become the snares that bind men, who flutter helplessly like birds caught in a trap. The mind itself, likened to a mighty elephant, becomes intoxicated with longing for the broad-hipped woman, standing chained and mute, bound fast by passion’s iron links. Men, like fish swimming in the pond of birth, darting through the waters of action, are drawn to the baited hook of woman, with bad habits forming the line that reels them in. For men, women become a fetter—just as a tether restrains a horse, a chain binds an elephant, or mud entangles the stem of a lotus. Yet, O sage, the world of enjoyment is wondrous and manifold, and it is through women that it reaches its highest expression. But let me be forever free from women, who are like a well-crafted casket containing all the gems of fault, and the unending chain of suffering. What is the worth of a breast, an eye, a hip, or an eyebrow, when they are merely flesh, without any true substance? Behold: here is flesh, here is blood, here are bones. In but a few short days, O Brahman, a woman’s body dissolves away. Those women who were once cherished by their husbands, their bodies wrapped and caressed as softly as cotton, now lie dismembered in the land of the ancestors. The face, once adorned by a lover with fragrant ointments and the freshness of budding lips, decays in the wilderness. The hair becomes like yak-tails hanging from the trees of the cremation ground; the bones, shining and scattered like stars, are strewn across the earth in a matter of days. Dust drinks the blood, flesh-eating creatures consume the body in many ways, fire devours the skin, and the vital airs depart into the sky. Thus, I have shown you the fate that awaits all bodies—why, then, do you chase after this delusion? This so-called body, born from the mingling of the five elements, is merely a vessel for taste—how can it be considered truly intelligent? The mind, following the path of desire, grows tall and tangled like a tree with spreading branches, bearing only bitter and sour fruits. Sometimes, the mind is agitated by attachment to wealth, blinded by greed, and falls into deep delusion—like a deer lost from its herd. A young man, indulging in pleasure with a woman, becomes pitiable indeed, bound by lust like an elephant trapped in a pit in the Vindhya mountains. Whoever has a woman desires enjoyment; one without a woman finds no ground for enjoyment. By abandoning woman, one abandons the world; by abandoning the world, one finds happiness. I take no delight in fleeting pleasures, in the difficult pursuits of enjoyment, nor in the delicate wings of bees. O Brahman, I rejoice only out of fear—fear of death, disease, and old age—and with effort, I seek supreme peace in the solitude of the forest. Consider how childhood is consumed by youth, and youth is quickly overtaken by old age; see how harshly each stage follows the next. Just as frost withers a lotus, or a storm scatters autumn clouds, so old age wears away the body, like a river eroding a tree on its bank. Women look upon a man whose body is weakened and elongated by old age just as they would regard an elephant—no different. When a person is seized by old age, afflicted by breathlessness and exhaustion, wisdom flees, just as a defeated co-wife slips away. Servants, sons, wives, relatives, and friends all laugh at the man trembling with age, treating him as if he were mad. Lacking discernment, miserable, deprived of virtues and vigor, he is approached by old age as a vulture approaches a withering tree. Longing only grows in old age, bringing with it misery and faults, burning in the heart and clinging as the sole companion through all calamities. “What painful duty awaits me in the next world?”—such terrible fear grows in old age, impossible to counter. “Who am I, wretched as I am? What do I do, and how do I even exist?”—such dejection arises, and I remain in silence, alone. Hunger arises, but I am unable to enjoy; my heart burns from the utter lack of strength that comes with age. As long as the old, decrepit crane of age, plagued by coughs and croaks, cries out atop the tree of the body, beset by the serpents of disease—so long, the owl of death, longing for the blind darkness, is seen approaching swiftly, O sage. Just as evening twilight, once arisen, pursues darkness, so, when old age is seen in the body, death is not far behind. When the tree of the body is seen blossoming with the signs of age, O Brahman, the bee of death eagerly approaches. You may see an empty city, a tree with its branches cut, or a land without rain—but nothing is so pitiable as the body battered by old age. In an instant, to devour, old age, coughing and croaking, seizes a man with force, just as a vulture snatches flesh. Old age, seeing the body, swiftly seizes the head and destroys the body, just as a maiden plucks a waterlily. It rasps and hisses, rough with dust, shredding the worn-out body as a storm tears at tender leaves. Struck by old age, the body becomes ruined, like a lotus whose beauty has faded, covered with frost and clusters of ice. This old age, rising like moonlight, spreads from the crown of the head, sending forth a feverish wind of coughs, like the night-blooming lotus opening in the darkness. Thus unfolds the journey of the body—from the temptations of desire, through the snares of pleasure, to the inevitable decay of old age and the shadow of death—reminding us of the fleeting nature of worldly joys and the wisdom of seeking true peace beyond them.