Story concerning Sorrow for the Dead

A certain man died and another rent his clothes in grief. Hearing his cries, a sage exclaimed: “If the dead man possessed the power he would tear his shroud by reason of thy wailing and would say: ‘Do not torment thyself on account of my affliction, since a day or two before thee I made ready for the journey. Perhaps thou hast forgotten thine own death, that my decease has made thee so distressed.’”

When he whose eyes are open to the truth scatters flowers over the dead, his heart burns not for the dead but for himself.

Why dost thou weep over the death of a child? He came pure, and he departed pure.

Tie now the feet of the bird of the soul; tarry not till it has borne the rope from thy hand.

Long hast thou sat in the place of another; soon will another sit in thy place.

Though thou be a hero or a swordsman, thou wilt carry away nothing but the shroud.

If the wild ass break its halter and wander into the desert its feet became ensnared in the sand. Thou, too, hast strength till thy feet go into the dust of the grave.

Since yesterday has gone and to-morrow has not come, take account of this one moment that now is.

In this garden of the world there is not a cypress that has grown which the wind of death has not uprooted.