Tukaram, Poem 2434

The end of your body is drawing near; your intellect is deranged, this is the mischievous work of time in an evil hour. You are like a withered stem that lets fall a leaf, a leaf as withered as itself. Weakness of the mind brings pain, but is not mortal, like the clouded intellect of the sot. Tuka says, As fishes struggle when the hook pierces them, so do men struggle against death.