He Who, Having Lost His Parents Or

The Widow Cries Out At The Door, The Light Of My Mind Has Gone Out, O My Mother, With His Death. So Cry Out, O Soul Brides Of The Husband Lord, And Dwell On The Glorious Praises Of The True Lord.

Giving No Pain To Any Creature, Let Him Slowly Accumulate Spiritual Merit, For The Sake ,of Acquiring A Companion To The Next World, Just As The White Ant ,gradually Raises Its Hill.

No Calamity Happens To Those Who Eagerly Follow Auspicious Customs And The Rule Of Good Conduct, To Those Who Are Always Careful Of Purity, And To Those Who Mutter ,sacred Texts And Offer Burnt Oblations.

The World Is A Drama, Staged In A Dream

Death Would Not Be Called Bad, O People, If One Knew How To Truly Die.