Old Age

How can you laugh and celebrate when the world is always smoldering? Surrounded by darkness, why aren't you reaching for a light?

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

Look closely at this dressed-up body: wounded, patched together, sickly, restless, with no real strength or permanence to it.

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

This body wears out, riddled with sickness and fragile to the core. This fragile bundle falls apart in the end, for where there is life, death surely follows.

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-gray bones lie scattered like gourds tossed aside in autumn. Having truly seen them, what is there to delight in?

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

This body is a city built of bones, plastered over with flesh and blood; and housed within it are decay and death, pride and jealousy.

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

Even a king's most splendid chariots wear out, and this body wears out too. But the truth taught by the good does not grow old, and so the good pass it on to one another.

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.

Someone who learns little grows old like an ox: gaining bulk and years, but never growing in wisdom.

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

Through countless births I have wandered in vain, searching for the builder of this house. Being born again and again is suffering indeed.

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

Builder of this house, now you are seen; you will never build it again. Your rafters are broken, your ridgepole shattered; my mind has reached the unconditioned and the end of craving.

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. [13]

Those who in their youth neither lived the holy life nor gathered what they needed waste away like old cranes beside a pond with no fish left in it.

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 their youth neither lived the holy life nor gathered what they needed lie sighing over the past, like worn-out arrows fallen short of the bow.

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.