To Indra, to the Mighty Steer, may these gold-coloured juices go, Drops rapidly produced, that find the light of heaven.
Effused, this juice victorious flows for Indra, for his maintenance. Soma bethinks him of the Conqueror, as he knows.
May Indra in his raptures gain from him the grasp that gathers spoil, And, winning waters, wield the steerstrong thunderbolt.
Flow vigilant for Indra, thou Soma, yea, Indu, run thou on: Bring hither splendid strength that finds the light of heaven.
Do thou, all-beautiful, purify for Indra's sake the mighty juice, Path-maker thou, far seeing, with a thousand ways.
Best finder of prosperity for us, most rich in sweets for Gods, Proceed thou loudly roaring on a thousand paths.
O Indu, with thy streams, in might, flow for the banquet of the Gods: Rich in meath, Soma, in our beaker take thy place.
Thy drops that swim in water have exalted Indra to delight: The Gods have drunk thee up for immortality.
Stream opulence to us, ye drops of Soma, pressed and purified, Pouring down rain from heaven in hoods, and finding light.
Soma, while filtered, with his wave flows through the long wool of the sheep, Shouting while purified before the voice of song.
With songs they send the Mighty forth, sporting in wood, above the fleece: Our psalms have glorified him of the triple height.
Into the jars hath he been loosed, like an impetuous steed for war, And lifting up his voice, while filtered, glided on.
Gold-hued and lovely in his course, througb tangles of the wool he flows, And pours heroic fame upon the worshippers.
Flow thus, a faithful votary: the streams of meath have been effused. Thou comest to the filter, singing, from each side.
