The monk who subdues his arisen anger
as, with herbs, snake-venom once it has spread,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk who has cut off passion
without leaving a trace,
as he would plunging into a lake, a lotus,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk who has cut off craving
without leaving a trace,
as if he had dried up a swift-flowing stream,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk who has demolished conceit
without leaving a trace,
as a great flood, a very weak bridge made of reeds,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk seeing
in states of becoming
no essence,
as he would,
when surveying a fig tree,
no flowers,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk with no inner anger,
who has thus gone beyond
becoming & not-,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk whose discursive thoughts are dispersed,
well-dealt with inside
without leaving a trace,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk who hasn't slipped past or turned back,
transcending all
this complication,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk who hasn't slipped past or turned back,
knowing with regard to the world
that "All this is unreal,"
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk who hasn't slipped past or turned back,
without greed, as "All this is unreal,"
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk who hasn't slipped past or turned back,
without aversion, as "All this is unreal,"
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk who hasn't slipped past or turned back,
without delusion, as "All this is unreal,"
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk in whom there are no obsessions
 — the roots of unskillfulness totally destroyed — 
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk in whom there's nothing born of distress
that would lead him back to this shore,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk in whom there's nothing born of desire
that would keep him bound to becoming,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.

The monk who's abandoned five hindrances,
who, untroubled, unwounded,
has crossed over doubt,
	sloughs off the near shore & far — 
	as a snake, its decrepit old skin.