My hut is roofed, comfortable, free of drafts; my mind, well-centered, set free. I remain ardent. So, rain-deva. Go ahead & rain.

Calmed, restrained, giving counsel unruffled, he lifts off evil states of mind — as the breeze, a leaf from a tree.

See this: the discernment of the Tathagatas, like a fire ablaze in the night, giving light, giving eyes, to those who come, subduing their doubt.

Who scatters the troops of the King of Death — as a great flood, a very weak bridge made of reeds — is victorious, for his fears are dispersed. He's tamed, unbound, steadfast in himself.

The color of blue-dark clouds, glistening, cooled with the waters of clear-flowing streams covered with ladybugs: those rocky crags refresh me.

My preceptor said to me: Let's go from here, Sivaka. My body stays in the village, my mind has gone to the wilds. Even though I'm lying down, I go. There's no tying down one who knows.

Just as a fine thoroughbred steed, with swishing tail & mane runs with next-to-no effort, so my days & nights run with next-to-no effort now that I've gained a happiness not of the flesh.

There was an heir to the One Awakened, a monk in the Bhesakala forest, who suffused this whole earth with the perception of “bones.” Quickly, I'd say, he abandoned sensual passion.

I'm not afraid of danger, of fear. Our Teacher's adept in the Deathless. Where danger, where fear do not remain: that's the path by which the monks go.

Peacocks, crested, blue, with gorgeous necks, cry out in the Karamvi woods, thrilled by the cold wind. They awaken the sleeper to meditate.

I — having eaten honey-rice in a bamboo patch and rightly grasping the aggregates' arising-disbanding — will return to the hillside, intent on seclusion.

Like splendor, his mind, continually fruitful: Attack a monk like that, you Dark One, and you'll fall into pain.

Hearing the well-spoken words of the Awakened One, Kinsman of the Sun, I pierced what is subtle — as if, with an arrow, the tip of a horse-tail hair.

Harita, raise yourself up- right and, straightening your mind — like a fletcher, an arrow — shatter ignorance to bits.

I'll make a trade: aging for the Ageless, burning for the Unbound: the highest peace, the unexcelled rest from the yoke.

As if struck by a sword, as if his head were on fire, a monk should live the wandering life — mindful — for the abandoning of sensual passion.

Lightning lands on the cleft between Vebhara & Pandava, but, having gone to the cleft in the mountains, he's absorbed in jhana — the son of the one without compare, the one who is Such.

So freed! So freed! So thoroughly freed am I from three crooked things: my sickles, my shovels, my plows. Even if they were here, right here, I'd be done with them, done. Do jhana, Sumangala. Do jhana, Sumangala. Sumangala, stay heedful.

Even with all the whistles & whistling, the calls of the birds, this, my mind, doesn't waver, for my delight is in oneness.

The earth's sprinkled with rain, wind is blowing, lightning wanders the sky, but my thoughts are stilled, well-centered my mind.

Who's in the hut? A monk's in the hut — free from passion, with well-centered mind. Know this, my friend: The hut you built wasn't wasted.

This was your old hut, and you aspire to another, new hut. Discard your hope for a hut, monk. A new hut will be painful all over again.(1)

One who sees sees who sees, sees who doesn't. One who doesn't see doesn't see who sees or who doesn't.

Exalted in mind & heedful: a sage trained in sagacity's ways. He has no sorrows, one who is Such,(1) calmed & ever mindful.

On seeing an old person; & a person in pain, diseased; & a person dead, gone to life's end, I left for the life gone forth, abandoning the sensuality that entices the heart.

Good the sight of the well-rectified: Doubt is cut off, intelligence grows. Even fools they make wise — so the company of the true is good.

Asleep the whole night, delighting in company by day: when, when will the fool bring suffering & stress to an end?

Adept in a theme for the mind, sensing the savor of solitude, practicing jhana, masterful, mindful, you'd attain a pleasure not of the flesh.

Outside of this path, the path of the many who teach other things doesn't go to Unbinding as does this: Thus the Blessed One instructs the Community, truly showing the palms of his hands.(1)

Sensual pleasures are stressful, Eraka. Sensual pleasures aren't ease. Whoever loves sensual pleasures loves stress, Eraka. Whoever doesn't, doesn't love stress.

I'm blind, my eyes are destroyed. I've stumbled on a wilderness track. Even if I must crawl, I'll go on, but not with an evil companion.

How light my body! Touched by abundant rapture & bliss, — like a cotton tuft borne on the breeze — it seems to be floating — my body!

Going forth is hard; houses are hard places to live; the Dhamma is deep; wealth, hard to obtain; it's hard to keep going with whatever we get: so it's right that we ponder continually continual inconstancy.

With clear waters & massive boulders, frequented by monkeys & deer, covered with moss & water weeds, those rocky crags refresh me.

As if sent by a curse, it drops on us — aging. The body seems other, though it's still the same one. I'm still here & have never been absent from it, but I remember myself as if somebody else's.

The five aggregates, having been comprehended, stand with their root cut through. For me the ending of stress is reached; the ending of fermentations, attained.