How short this life! You die this side of a century, but even if you live past, you die of old age. People grieve for what they see as mine, for nothing possessed is constant, nothing is constantly possessed.[1] Seeing this separation simply as it is, one shouldn't follow the household life. At death a person abandons what he construes as mine. Realizing this, the wise shouldn't incline to be devoted to mine. Just as a man doesn't see, on awakening, what he met in a dream, even so he doesn't see, when they are dead — their time done — those he held dear. When they are seen & heard, people are called by this name or that, but only the name remains to be pointed to when they are dead. Grief, lamentation, & selfishness are not let go by those greedy for mine, so sages letting go of possessions, seeing the Secure, go wandering forth. A monk, living withdrawn, enjoying a dwelling secluded: they say it's congenial for him he who wouldn't, in any realm, display self. Everywhere the sage independent holds nothing dear or undear. In him lamentation & selfishness, like water on a white lotus, do not adhere. As a water bead on a lotus leaf, as water on a red lily, does not adhere, so the sage does not adhere to the seen, the heard, or the sensed; for, cleansed, he doesn't construe in connection with the seen, the heard, or the sensed. In no other way does he wish for purity, for he neither takes on passion nor puts it away.[2]