insects in the rotten fruits that he delights in* The days ar&
the flowers—each haunted by a night bee—with which he-
weaves his endless wreaths and chains. The suns and moons
and all the orbs of heaven are his playthings, lighter in his
hands than balls in the hands of babes.

"Many are his names : Krtanta, the Ender ; Daiva, Doom
incarnate; Maha-Kala, the Great Turner of the Wheel of
Countless Cycles. Destiny is his grim bride. Hand in hand"
they dance an awful dance in celebration of the Kalpa's end.
Thrice-purchased slaves of theirs are we, and they our masters,
all devoid of mercy. Ruthlessly they drive their slaves and
prematurely wear them out. Their ever-oppressing tyranny
transforms our foods into unwholesome poison. The world'
grows only sick with sensuous joys. Wherewith we seek our
ease, yields but disease. Our own limbs become our enemies.
Truth turns to falsehood. Righteousness it-self deceives. So,
in sheer despair, the self destroys itself, unable to endure that
vast oppression longer.

^Wherein shall we find rest, wherein relief, from this
relentless horror of impermanence, of helpless slavery to
Change and Time and Death ?

"Ever this stream of living things is vanishing into the
shambles of non-entity. Old landmarks disappear ; broad
countries change their faces ; the mountains are worn down-
by ceaseless-flowing waters into mire and marsh and sands
and dust. Where we behold, today, an immense hollow like the
dry bed of an ancient ocean, there we see, tomorrow, a towering
mountain, crowned with clouds ; where we see that mountain».
clothed in green and spreading forests, lifts its heady
to-day, to greet the skies, there, next day, stretches a flat and
arid plain. The body that, today, is decked with silks and
wreaths and unguents, lies, tomorrow, in the grave, all bare and