“Get up child, why do you grieve so? You’re already betrothed to be married! King Anīkaratta the handsome is in Vāraṇavatī: he is your betrothed.

You shall be the chief queen, wife of King Anīkaratta. Ethical precepts, the chaste path—going forth is hard to do, my child.

As a royal there is command, wealth, authority, and the happiness of possessions. Enjoy sensual pleasures while you’re still young! Let your wedding take place, my child!”

Then Sumedhā said to him: “Let this not come to pass! Existence is hollow! I shall either go forth or die, but I shall never marry.

Why cling to this rotting body so foul, stinking of fluids, a horrifying water-bag carcass, always oozing, full of filth?

Knowing it like I do, what’s the point? A carcass is vile, smeared with flesh and blood, food for birds and swarms of worms—why have we been given it?

Before long the body, bereft of consciousness, is carried out to the charnel ground, to be discarded like an old log by relatives in disgust.

When they’ve discarded it in the charnel ground, to be eaten by others, your own parents bathe themselves, disgusted; what then of people at large?

They’re attached to this hollow carcass, this mass of sinews and bone; this rotting body full of saliva, tears, feces, and pus.