THERE where the broad-based stone raised on high to press the juices out, O Indra, drink with eager thirst the droppings which the mortar sheds.
Where, like broad hips, to hold the juice the platters of the press are laid, O Indra, drink with eager thirst the droppings which the mortar sheds.
There where the woman marks and leans the pestle's constant rise and fall, O Indra, drink with eager thirst the droppings which the mortar sheds.
Where, as with reins to guide a horse, they bind the churning-staff with cords, O Indra, drink with eager thirst the droppings which the mortar sheds.
If of a truth in every house, O Mortar thou art set for work, Here give thou forth thy clearest sound, loud as the drum of conquerors.
O Sovran of the Forest, as the wind blows soft in front of thee, Mortar, for Indra press thou forth the Soma juice that he may drink.
Best strength-givers, ye stretch wide jaws, O Sacrificial Implements, Like two bay horses champing herbs.
Ye Sovrans of the Forest, both swift, with swift pressers press to-day Sweet Soma juice for Indra's drink.
Take up in beakers what remains: the Soma on the filter pour, and on the ox-hide set the dregs.
