Dhp XVIII : Impurities

You are now

like a yellowed leaf.

Already

Yama’s minions stand near.

You stand at the door to departure

but have yet to provide

for the journey.

Make an island for yourself!

Work quickly! Be wise!

With impurities all blown away,

unblemished,

you’ll reach the divine realm

of the noble ones.

You are now

right at the end of your time.

You are headed

to Yama’s presence,

with no place to rest along the way,

but have yet to provide

for the journey.

Make an island for yourself!

Work quickly! Be wise!

With impurities all blown away,

unblemished,

you won’t again undergo birth

& aging.

Just as a silver smith

step by

step,

bit by

bit,

moment to

moment,

blows away the impurities

of molten silver–

so the wise man, his own.

Just as rust

–iron’s impurity–

eats the very iron

from which it is born,

so the deeds

of one who lives slovenly

lead him on

to a bad destination.

No recitation: the ruinous impurity

of chants.

No initiative: of a household.

Indolence: of beauty.

Heedlessness: of a guard.

In a woman, misconduct is an impurity.

In a donor, stinginess.

Evil deeds are the real impurities

in this world & the next.

More impure than these impurities

is the ultimate impurity:

ignorance.

Having abandoned this impurity,

monks, you’re impurity-free.

Life’s easy to live

for someone unscrupulous,

cunning as a crow,

corrupt, back-biting,

forward, & brash;

but for someone who’s constantly

scrupulous, cautious,

observant, sincere,

pure in his livelihood,

clean in his pursuits,

it’s hard.

Whoever kills, lies, steals,

goes to someone else’s wife,

& is addicted to intoxicants,

digs himself up

by the root

right here in this world.

So know, my good man,

that bad deeds are reckless.

Don’t let greed & unrighteousness

oppress you with long-term pain.

People give

in line with their faith,

in line with conviction.

Whoever gets flustered

at food & drink given to others,

attains no concentration

by day or by night.

But one in whom this is

cut through

up-rooted

wiped out–

attains concentration

by day or by night.

There’s no fire like passion,

no seizure like anger,

no snare like delusion,

no river like craving.

It’s easy to see

the errors of others,

but hard to see

your own.

You winnow like chaff

the errors of others,

but conceal your own–

like a cheat, an unlucky throw.

If you focus on the errors of others,

constantly finding fault,

your effluents flourish.

You’re far from their ending.

There’s no trail in space,

no outside contemplative.

People are smitten

with objectification,

but devoid of objectification are

the Tathagatas.

There’s no trail in space,

no outside contemplative,

no eternal fabrications,

no wavering in the Awakened.