O SOMA, being purified bring us the wondrous treasure, meet For lauds, that is in earth and heaven.
For ye Twain, Indra, Soma, are Lords of the light, Lords of the kine: Great Rulers, prosper ye our songs.
The tawny Steer, while cleansed among the living, bellowing on the grass, Hath sunk and settled in his home.
Over the Steer's productive flow the sacred songs were resonant, The mothers of the darling Son.
Hath he not, purified, impregned the kine whb long to meet their Lord, The kine who yield the shining milk?
Bring near us those who stand aloof strike fear into our enemies: O Pavamana, find us wealth.
Soma, bring down the foeman's might, his vigorous strength and vital powe'r, Whether he be afar or near.
