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 objectification, 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.