IN the Tree clothed with goodly leaves where Yama drinketh with the Gods, The Father, Master of the house, tendeth with love our ancient Sires.
I looked reluctantly on him who cherishes those men of old, On him who treads that evil path, and then I yearned for this again.
Thou mountest, though thou dost not see, O Child, the new and wheel-less car Which thou hast fashioned mentally, onepoled but turning every way.
The car which thou hast made to roll hitherward from the Sages, Child! This hath the Sāman followed close, hence, laid together on a ship.
Who was the father of the child? Who made the chariot roll away? Who will this day declare to us how the funeral gift was made?
When the funeral gift was placed, straightway the point of flame appeared. A depth extended in the front: a passage out was made behind.
Here is the seat where Yama dwells, that which is called the Home of Gods: Here minstrels blow the flute for him here he is glorified with songs.
