Sutta Nipāta
1
Sutta 1. Uraga Sutta
The Snake
Translated from the Pali by Thanissaro Bhikkhu.
For free distribution only.
Translator's note:
A comparative study among the records of various early Buddhist schools suggests that the verses here, like those in I.3, were originally separate poems, spoken on separate occasions, and that they have been gathered together because they share the same refrain.
The monk who subdues his arisen anger
as, with herbs, snake-venom once it has spread,
sloughs off the near shore and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and far —
as a snake, its decrepit old skin.
The monk with no inner anger,
who has thus gone beyond
becoming and not-,
sloughs off the near shore and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and far —
as a snake, its decrepit old skin.
