In sweetest and most gladdening stream flow pure, O Soma, on thy way, Pressed out for Indra, for his drink.
Fiend-queller, Friend of all men, he hath with the wood attained unto His place, his iron-fashioned home.
Be thou best Vṛtra-slayer, best granter of bliss, most liberal: Promote our wealthy princes' gifts.
Flow onward with thy juice unto the banquet of the Mighty Gods: Flow hither for our strength and fame.
O Indu, we draw nigh to thee, with this one object day by day: To thee alone our prayers are said
By means of this eternal fleece may Sūrya's Daughter purify Thy Soma that is foaming forth.
Ten sister maids of slender form seize him within the press and hold Him firmly on the final day.
The virgins send him forth: they blow the skin musician-like and fuse The triple foe-repelling meath.
Inviolable milch-kine round about him blend for Indra's drink, The fresh young Soma with their milk.
In the wild raptures of this draught, Indra slays all the Vṛtras: he, The Hero, pours his wealth on us.
