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,
drying up the swift-flowing flood, sloughs off the near shore & far—
as a snake, its decrepit old skin.
The monk who has uprooted 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 examining fig trees,
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 held 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 held 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 held 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 held 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 disturbance 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 the underbrush
that would act as a cause
for binding him to becoming,
sloughs off the near shore & far—
as a snake, its decrepit old skin.
The monk who’s abandoned five hindrances,
who, untroubled, de-arrowed,
has crossed over doubt,
sloughs off the near shore & far—
as a snake, its decrepit old skin.
Citation from www.dhammatalks.org
https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/Writings/SuttaNipata160803.pdf
