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.

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,
	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.

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.