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The notions of ‘I’ and ‘mine’ are the seeds of worldly existence. Realizing “not mine, not me” ends birth — like a fire without fuel, it dies down.
I am Bakāsura, the demon who indulged in consuming terrible flesh, now suffering in a hell born of that sloth and cruelty.
The cuckoo, proud of his melodious voice and fame among females, glances at a fruit-laden mango tree to compete — yet envies the other’s beauty.
My beloved is as close to me as my chariot’s wheel or night to a cloak — inseparable, intimate, and silently present.
A king who promises protection but fails to act is like a mad dog — deserving to be put down without hesitation.
Though I have always been like life itself for kings, this one sees me as grass. So I whispered my sorrow to a seeker of gold (an earring-seeker).
One who thinks he’s the king’s favorite may be like an ox without horns — seemingly strong but ultimately powerless.
Each day one must reflect: what good did I do today? Did I give, make someone give, or at least speak good words?
Every day beings die and go to the final abode, yet the rest desire permanence — what can be more astonishing?
Every day, Prajāpati creates beings — but hasn’t yet made one who doesn’t disrespect a beggar.
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