Only he whose hands are steady on the steering wheel of his mind and body and is in full control of his desires, can carry the wisdom's mark on his forehead. To such an enlightened mind, the darkness of the night glows like a sunlit day, dark ignorance yielding to bright knowledge. Nothing can hoodwink his all-perceiving eyes. A genuine saint is such a man blessed by the Gods.
Like the deep sea, he absorbs an insurgent flood but does not let its shore-line be deflected. It welcomes rivers from all directions but is not overwhelmed by them—its underworld remains undisturbed because its centre can always hold.
So, O blessed Prince, throw away the yoke of your impulses, their oppressive burden, regaining your suzerainty over them. Disengage yourself from man's prime infirmities—his ego and passion.
This, O Prince, is the only way to merge into God, the individual soul's union with the Oversoul. Once you are up there on the heights, you will never slide down to the dark valley below. It will then be the same for you—living or dying, waking or dreaming, gaining or losing.
This is what the sages call Moksha—release from the bondage of birth and death—basking forever in the sunshine of Life Divine, of peace eternal.