dhp.146-156 Dhammapada

Why this laughter, why this joy, when the world is constantly burning,
why, when enveloped by darkness, do you not seek for a light?

See this beautified manikin, a heap of sores that is raised up,
sick, imagined in many ways, which has nothing stable or firm.

This body is worn out, a nest of disease, perishing,
the putrid body comes to destruction, for life ends in death.

Like discarded white gourds thrown away in autumn
are these grey bones; seeing them, why is there delight?

This fortress is made out of bones,
plastered over with flesh and blood,
but hidden within lie old age,
death, also conceit and anger.

Decorated royal chariots decay,
and the body also decays,
but the good Dhamma does not decay,
the good surely pass it on to the good.

The person of little learning increases in age like an ox,
for although his flesh does increase, his wisdom does not increase.

Through the round of countless births and deaths I have wandered without finding
the housebuilder I was seeking: born and suffering once again.
O housebuilder, now you are seen! You will not build the house again:
all your rafters have been broken, and the ridgepole has been destroyed,
my mind has reached the unconditioned, and craving’s end has been achieved.

Not having lived the holy life, not having gained wealth in their youth,
they waste away like herons in a small lake devoid of fish.

Not having lived the holy life, not having gained wealth in their youth,
they lie like shafts shot from a bow, wailing about things in the past.

Why laughter, why joy,
While ever-aflame?
Covered in darkness,
Do you not seek the light?

Look at this beautified image, with many plans—
A diseased mass of sores that has no permanence.

This body, a nest of illness that is wasted away,
This foul mass breaks up,
For truly life ends in death.

On seeing these gray bones,
Scattered like gourds in autumn—
What is the fondness?

It (the body) is a city made of bones, plastered in
flesh and blood,
Where old age, death, conceit, and hypocrisy are
stored.

Even the king’s chariots, so splendidly adorned,
decay.
Alas, the body too decays.
But the Dhamma of the good does not age;
Indeed, the good declare it to one another.

He of little learning grows old like an ox;
His bulk increases, but his wisdom does not.

Through many rounds of birth have I run,
Seeking and not finding the builder of this house.
Painful is birth, again and again.

House-builder you are seen! You will build no
more!
Your rafters are broken, the roof destroyed.
The mind, having gone to the Unconditioned,
Has attained the destruction of craving.

Not having lived a holy life,
Not having obtained wealth in youth,
They brood,
Like old herons in a lake without fish.

Not having lived a holy life,
Not having attained wealth in their youth,
They lie like arrows shot from a bow,
Lamenting the past.

When this world is ever ablaze, why this laughter, why this jubilation? Shrouded in darkness, will you not see the light?

Behold this body—a painted image, a mass of heaped up sores, infirm, full of hankering—of which nothing is lasting or stable!

Fully worn out is this body, a nest of disease, and fragile. This foul mass breaks up, for death is the end of life.

These dove-colored bones are like gourds that lie scattered about in autumn. Having seen them, how can one seek delight?

This city (body) is built of bones, plastered with flesh and blood; within are decay and death, pride and jealousy.

Even gorgeous royal chariots wear out, and indeed this body too wears out. But the Dhamma of the Good does not age; thus the Good make it known to the good.

The man of little learning grows old like a bull. He grows only in bulk, but, his wisdom does not grow.

Through many a birth in samsara have I wandered in vain, seeking the builder of this house (of life). Repeated birth is indeed suffering!

O house-builder, you are seen! You will not build this house again. For your rafters are broken and your ridgepole shattered. My mind has reached the Unconditioned; I have attained the destruction of craving.

Those who in youth have not led the holy life, or have failed to acquire wealth, languish like old cranes in the pond without fish.

Those who in youth have not lead the holy life, or have failed to acquire wealth, lie sighing over the past, like worn out arrows (shot from) a bow.