"Venerable one, you are skilled in discourse; I pray you will explain this to me. Who is it that creates all the forms and appearances of this world?

Is it like a potter shaping a vessel, turning clay on a wheel? Or like a musician playing an instrument, producing sound by striking it? Or like a single object possessing three inherent natures—completed, uncompleted, and both—all present within one thing? How can the many diverse forms arise from a single source?

Is it created by the gods of Tuṣita? By the gods of Yāma? By the gods of Paranirmitavaśavartin? By the great tree-spirits, the Kiṃnaras? By the gods of Sudarśana? By the gods of Akaniṣṭha? By Brahmā with the coiled hair? By the formless gods? By all the heavenly lords? By nature itself? By magical transformation? By the Buddhas? Or by the Buddha-sons in other worlds?

Are all these created forms merely illusions, deceptively established? Do these illusions arise like a deer mistaking a mirage for water?

Just as a pot exists as a vessel for its contents, So all things in the world abide in their places. What is not a quality belongs to a quality; what is not a quality depends on a quality— Through mutual combination, all qualities are assembled.

Are all forms merely illusions, or do they truly exist? Are they created by Brahmā? By Nārāyaṇa? By the powerful ones, by the Vaiśeṣika, by the Sāṃkhya, by themselves? By the primal nature? By the lord, by nature itself? By time, by ignorance? By desire and karma? Gods, sages, and worldly meditators—all are filled with doubt.

Is it that they have no real substance from the start, Like a dream, an illusion, Like a heat haze, or a city of Gandharvas? Through beginningless false discrimination, Following one after another in succession, Do subject and object arise, like a snake with two heads, Or like a corpse walking, a wooden puppet moved by strings, Like seeing hair falling in the sky, or a whirling circle of fire?"