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.

Catch it, catch it, keep catching it, throw after throw. Drop what is in your hand, and you take a blow on the back. The ball is made of the three gunas; the hand flings it up, and wherever its face lands, the mind fixes its eye right there. The bold one leaps and seizes it again and again from above; the quick player wins, the timid one stumbles back and forth, bewildered. Whatever you catch, no one lets you sit still and keep it; turn after turn they snatch it away, bending you double as they go. When the bad throw lands on you, you bear mountains of sorrow, a weight on your back and the whole ring spinning around you. Tuka says: look at the joy of that rare one who breaks free of the game. The one who wins today, time will strip bare at some turn or other.