You are now like a yellowed leaf. Already Yama’s minions stand near.

You stand at the door to departure but have yet to provide for the journey.

Make an island for yourself! Work quickly! Be wise!

With impurities all blown away, unblemished, you’ll reach the divine realm of the noble ones.

You are now right at the end of your time. You are headed to Yama’s presence,

with no place to rest along the way, but have yet to provide for the journey.

Make an island for yourself! Work quickly! Be wise!

With impurities all blown away, unblemished, you won’t again undergo birth & aging.

Just as a silver smith step by step, bit by bit, moment to moment,

blows away the impurities of molten silver— 61so the wise man, his own.

Just as rust —iron’s impurity— eats the very iron from which it is born,

so the deeds of one who lives slovenly lead him on to a bad destination.

No recitation: the ruinous impurity of chants. No initiative: of a household.

Indolence: of beauty. Heedlessness: of a guard.

In a woman, misconduct is an impurity. In a donor, stinginess.

Evil deeds are the real impurities in this world & the next.

More impure than these impurities is the ultimate impurity: ignorance.

Having abandoned this impurity, monks, you’re impurity-free.

Life’s easy to live for someone unscrupulous, cunning as a crow,

corrupt, back-biting, forward, & brash;

but for someone who’s constantly scrupulous,

cautious, observant, sincere, pure in his livelihood, clean in his pursuits, it’s hard.

Whoever kills, lies,

steals, goes to someone else’s wife,

& is addicted to intoxicants,

digs himself up by the root right here in this world.

So know, my good man, that bad deeds are reckless.

Don’t let greed & unrighteousness oppress you with long-term pain.

People give in line with their faith, in line with conviction.

Whoever gets flustered at food & drink given to others,

attains no concentration by day or by night.

But one in whom this is cut through up- rooted wiped out—

attains concentration by day or by night.

There’s no fire like passion, no seizure like anger,

no snare like delusion, no river like craving.

It’s easy to see the errors of others, but hard to see your own.

You winnow like chaff the errors of others,

but conceal your own— like a cheat, an unlucky throw.

If you focus on the errors of others, constantly finding fault,

your effluents flourish. You’re far from their ending.

There’s no trail in space, no outside contemplative.

People are smitten with objectification, but devoid of objectification are the Tathagatas.

There’s no trail in space, no outside contemplative,

no eternal fabrications, no wavering in the Awakened.

Malavaggo aṭṭhārasamo niṭṭhito.