A man is not born to mastery.

A master is never proud.

He does not talk down to others.

Owning nothing, he misses nothing.

He is not afraid.

He does not tremble.

Nothing binds him.

He is infinitely free.

So cut through

the strap and the thong and the rope.

Loosen the fastenings.

Unbolt the doors of sleep

And awake.


The master endures

Insults and ill treatment

Without reacting.

For his spirit is an army.

He is never angry.

He keeps his promises.

He never strays, he is determined.

This body is my last, he says!

Like water on the leaf of a lotus flower

Or a mustard seed on the point of a needle,

He does not cling.


For he has reached the end of sorrow

And has laid down his burden.

He looks deeply into things

And sees their nature.

He discriminates

And reaches the end of the way.


And the way he has taken

Is hidden from men,

Even from spirits and gods,

By virtue of his purity.

In him there in no yesterday,

No tomorrow,

No today.


Possessing nothing,

Wanting nothing.

He is full of power.

Fearless, wise, exalted.

He has vanquished all things.

He sees by virtue of his purity.


He has come to the end of the way,

Over the river of his many lives,

His many deaths.

Beyond the sorrow of hell,

Beyond the great joy of heaven,

By virtue of his purity.

He has come to the end of the way.

All that he had to do, he has done.

And now he is one.

The Buddha - Dhammapada Teachings - The True Master

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