PASSED through, the fleece in thousand streams the Soma, purified, flows on To Indra's, Viyu's special place.
Sing forth, ye men who long for help, to Pavamana, to the Sage, Effused to entertain the Gods.
The Soma-drops with thousand powers are purified for victory, Hymned to become the feast of Gods.
Yea, as thou flowest bring great store of food that we may win the spoil Indu, bring splendid manly might.
May they in flowing give us wealth in thousands, and heroic power,— These Godlike Soma-drops effused.
Like coursers by their drivers urged, they were poured forth, for victory, Swift through the woollen straining-cloth.
Noisily flow the Soma-drops, like milch-kine lowing to their calves: They have run forth from both the hands.
As Gladdener whom Indra loves, O Pavamana, with a roar Drive all our enemies away.
O Pavamamas, driving off the godless, looking on the light, Sit in the place of sacrifice.
