Catch it! Catch it! Keep catching, over and over! Lose what is in your hand, and you pay with a blow to the back. The ball of the three gunas, the hand flings it aside; whatever face lands up, the mind fixes its eye right there. The bold one leaps and grabs it again and again from above; the quick one wins, the coward stumbles back and forth, bewildered. What falls into the hand, no one lets you sit still with it; turn after turn they seize it, bending you forward as they go. When the bad throw lands, you endure mountains of sorrow; a load rides your back, and the whole circle stands spinning around you. Says Tuka: look at the joy of that rare one who breaks free. The one who wins today, time strips bare at one turn or another.