I am of the nature to decay. This body will not escape aging. The wrinkled old man in the cold shuffling his way down the street, leaning on his cane is no stranger. If I am to be fortunate in this life, his lot is the best I can hope for.
This human life: how many years will it last? At best seventy, eighty or maybe one hundred years. And then it will lie in a casket, on a bed or on the ground as lifeless as a block of wood.
Where in this walking cadáver does pride live? How can this hay burn with anything other than pity and love for all of my mothers and companions in birth, aging and death?
Cattāri Brahmavihārā 
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