KN.DHP146-156 — The Chapter on Old Age
What is the laughter, what is the joy, when the world is ever burning? Shrouded in darkness, why do you not seek the light?
Behold this painted image, a body full of sores, Diseased, full of many thoughts, in which there is no permanence.
This body is worn out, a nest of diseases, fragile, This foul mass breaks up, for life ends in death.
These white bones, like gourds thrown away in autumn, What delight is there in seeing them?
A city of bones is made, plastered with flesh and blood, Wherein dwell old age and death, pride and deceit.
The splendid chariots of kings wear out, And so does the body decay; But the Dhamma of the good does not decay, Thus the noble ones declare to the noble.
This man of little learning grows old like an ox; His flesh increases, but not his wisdom.
Through many a birth I wandered in saṁsāra, seeking but not finding, The builder of this house. Sorrowful is repeated birth. O house-builder, you are seen! You shall build no house again. All your rafters are broken, your ridgepole is shattered. My mind has attained the unconditioned; Achieved is the end of craving.
Having not lived the holy life, nor gained wealth in youth, They waste away like old herons in a pond without fish. Having not lived the holy life, nor gained wealth in youth, They lie like worn-out bows, lamenting the past.