Our life is like th’ unstable wave, Our bloom of youth decays. Our joys are brief as lightning flash In summer’s cloudy days, Our riches fleet as swift as thought; Faith in the One Supreme Alone will bear us o’er the gulfs Of Being’s stormy stream.
I’ve wandered over many lands, and reaped withal no fruit, I’ve laid my pride of rank aside, and pressed my baffled suit, At stranger boards, like shameless crow, I’ve eaten bitter bread, But fierce Desire, that raging fire, still clamours to be fed.
Those from whom we were born have long since departed, and those with whom we grew up exist only in memory. We, too, through the approach of death, become, as it were, trees growing on the sandy bank of a river.
Where is the greatest peace? In truth and righteousness. Who is the hero? The man who subdues his senses. Who is the best beloved? The faithful wife. What is wealth? Knowledge. What is the most perfect happiness? Staying at home.
For a moment man is a boy, for a moment a lovesick youth, for a moment bereft of wealth, for a moment in the height of prosperity; then at life’s end with limbs worn out by old age and wrinkles adorning his face, like an actor he retires behind the curtain of death.
The moth unwitting rushes on the fire, Through ignorance the fish devours the bait, We men know well the foes that lie in wait, Yet cannot shun the meshes of desire.
