When a man lives heedlessly,

craving grows in them like a camel’s foot creeper.

They jump from one thing to the next, like a langur

greedy for fruit in a forest grove.

Whoever is beaten by this wretched craving,

this attachment to the world,

their sorrow grows,

like grass in the rain.

But whoever prevails over this wretched craving,

so hard to get over in the world,

their sorrows fall from them,

like a drop from a lotus-leaf.

I say this to you, good people,

all those who have gathered here:

dig up the root of craving,

as you’d dig up grass in search of roots.

Don’t let Māra break you again and again,

like a stream breaking a reed.

A tree grows back even when cut down,

so long as its roots are strong and undamaged;

suffering springs up again and again,

so long as the tendency to craving is not pulled out.

A person of low views

in whom the thirty-six streams

that flow to pleasure are mighty,

is swept away by lustful thoughts.