Forth stream thy heady draughts, swift and stirring, driven by the seers’ insight, O thou self-cleansing one, even as the fleet-winged birds that are born in haste. Heaven-born drops, feathered with gold, sweet with honey, sit in circle round the sacred vat. Lo, thy lively waters, strong and gladdening, have leapt forth as steeds from the start, Each in its course, eager and alone. As the milk-cow hasteneth to her calf, so do thy honeyed waves run to Indra, bearer of the mace. Like a spurred courser dost thou race toward the prize— toward the cask of heaven, born of the stone, Thou, finder of the sun, strong Soma, strained upon the sheep’s broad back, nourishment for Indra's strength. Hymns winged with wisdom fly to the Aśvins, filled with milk, surging within the bowl, O self-purging one, where seers of worth have poured their weighty songs— the wise who tend thee, thou who bringest seers to light. Thy torches wheel through every realm, yet thou goest ever before, thou craftiest watcher, all-seeing. Reaching far, thou dost cleanse thyself by thine own law, ruling as lord of the world’s whole frame. Thy gleams, thy golden beacons wheel about, though thy seat is stilled; And when the fallow bay is strained through the fleece, seated in his womb, he settles in the holy tubs. Light of the rite, sweet to the feast, thou dost cleanse thyself, Soma, hastening to the gods’ gathering. With a thousand streams thou whirlest round the vat, a bellowing bull upon the filter. The king hath pierced the sea, the rivers; he stands firm amid the streams, riding the water’s wave. Self-purging one, thou mountest the sheep’s back, on earth’s navel, strong to uphold the mighty sky. Roaring as thunder along the sky's back, he cries aloud, he by whose laws both heaven and earth do stand. He purifies himself, ever finding Indra’s fellowship. Soma, in cleansing, resteth in the sacred bowls. Flame of the rite, he cleanses himself as its honeyed heart, father and begetter of gods, rich in shining gifts. He layeth a secret hoard 'twixt Heaven and Earth— that most gladdening draught of Indra's delight. Roaring for the prize, he rusheth to the tub, heaven’s lord with a hundred floods, wide-gazing. The pale one sitteth in Mitra’s seat, the bull oft-tended by sheep and stream alike. At the rivers’ head he cleanseth himself, at speech’s head he leadeth the kine. At the prize’s head he claimeth his share— the bull of well-wrought arms, pressed by the wise. This one, with thought beside him, hath run like a bird into the fleece, cleansing himself in wave on wave. By thy will, O seer, by thy deep mind, the clear Soma purifieth 'twixt the two worlds for thee, O Indra. He hath clad himself in a robe that toucheth heaven, filling the space between, fitted into the worlds. At birth, he strideth the cloud toward the sun— he would draw his ageless father hither. He stretcheth his wide roof o’er the folk, when he hath reached his first domain. What is his footstep in the high far heaven? From thence he comes streaming in endless array. The drop hath gone to Indra’s hall— a friend betrayeth not his friend. As youth doth rush to maidens, so doth Soma into the vat, by a hundred paths. Thy insights stride forth, rousing joy, sounding praise, seeking it in their own abode. The thoughts inspired, the measures cry out to Soma, and milk-cows blend him with milk. O Soma, O drop, purify thyself, bring us endless draughts of refreshment, swelling and sure, which, failing not, shall thrice each day milk forth brave sons, with kine, with spoil, and honeyed wealth. The thought-bull, wide-gazing, cleanses himself—Soma, who lengthens day and dawn and heaven. By the rivers’ work he made the tubs cry out, entering Indra’s heart by the work of the wise. By the wise, the eldest bard purifies himself; by men he bellows round the vats. He begetteth the name of Trita, he floweth as honey to bind Indra and Vāyu as one. This one hath made the dawns shine wide; he maketh space for rivers broad. He milked thrice-seven cows for his draught— the gladdening Soma cleanseth in a way beloved. Cleanse thyself, Soma, in Heaven’s halls; rush to the vat, into the fleece, O drop. Sitting in Indra’s belly, roaring forever, guided by men, thou madest the sun rise on high. Pressed by the stone, thou dost purify in the sieve, O drop, entering Indra’s belly. Thou art the watcher of men, wide-seeing. Soma, thou didst unpen the kine for the Aṅgirases. The poets hail thee as thou dost cleanse thyself, O Soma, thou whom feathered thought hath decked. The fair-plumed falcon bore thee hither from heaven— thou, drop divine, art clothed in all our thoughts. Seven kine cry out to the tawny one, cleansed upon the sheep’s fleece in the circling flood. To the lap of the waters, to truth’s womb, the Āyus, the buffaloes, have sped the bard. The drop, being cleansed, outstrippeth the scorners, making all paths smooth for the worshipful. He robes him in kine, the sweet-hearted bard, playful as a steed, whirling round the fleece. Inexhaustible, with a hundred streams, bright in form, they rush to the tawny one with their waters. The fingers tend him, cow-wreathed, on the third back, in Heaven’s gleaming field. Thine are the sons of heavenly seed; thou rulest over all that is. All this is under thy will, O self-cleansing one; thou art the first layer of all foundations, O drop. Thou art the sea, O poet, the all-knowing; thine are the five quarters in their breadth. Thou hast surpassed both Heaven and Earth; thine are the beams, O self-purging one, and the sun. O Soma, thou art strained for the gods in the sieve, in the wide firmament. The priests seized thee first with fire; to thee the worlds have bowed themselves. The hoarse-voiced one goeth across the fleece; the tawny bull roareth into the wood. The visions of hymns have lowed together, and thoughts lick the child of marvel. He hath clad himself in sun’s bright rays, stretching his triple thread, as is well known. Leading truth’s newest orders, he, like a husband, goeth to his wives. River-king, Heaven-lord, thou dost cleanse thyself, treading truth’s path, forever crying aloud. Poured round with a thousand streams, the tawny one bringeth forth speech, bringeth near the good. Thou cleansest thyself as a mighty flood, bright as the sun, running through the fleece. Hand-purified by men, pressed by stones, thou strivest for the rich prize. Self-purging one, thou dost hasten to draught and feast. Like a falcon in the woods thou sittest in the vat. For Indra is pressed the most gladdening draught, Heaven’s mighty staff, all-seeing. The seven sisters, like mothers, come to the new-born child, of noble birth, who heeds the song— Heaven’s Gandharva of the waters, the watcher of men, even Soma, orderer of all. With lordship thou fliest across the worlds, O drop, thy golden mares yoked for the flight. Let them stream milk and honeyed ghee for thee. Let all peoples be held beneath thy law. Thou, O Soma, seest men on every side. Cleanse thyself, strong bull, across these realms. Cleanse in a way full of wealth and gold for us— that we may be fit to dwell in the worlds. Cleanse thyself, finder of kine, of gold, of goods. Sowing thy seed, O drop, thou art fixed in the worlds. Rich in brave sons art thou, all-finder. These seers come near thee with song. The honeyed wave hath stirred desire. Robed in waters, the buffalo plunges through. The king, whose car is the sieve, hath mounted the prize; with a thousand spines, he winneth high fame. He stirreth all blessings—of sons, of ease— for all our days, each one. Then, O drop, when drunk, plead for us with Indra, for a holy word, for steeds in the house. At the days’ dawning the tawny, sweet, rousing draught maketh himself known with each day’s light. Setting both tribes—gods and men—in place, he speeds between with praise of men and heaven. They anoint him—severally and all at once. They lick him, the willful one; they smear him with honey. He, the flying ox in the river’s foam, is clasped by waters that cleanse the gold. Sing unto the self-cleansing one who loves the song; like a flood he darteth beyond his stalk. Like a serpent he slippeth past his dead skin— like a steed at play, the tawny bull doth run. First among rivers, the king of days declareth his might, fitted to the worlds. The ghee-girt fallow flood, fair to behold, light-limbed and rich, doth cleanse himself. He is loosed, the staff of Heaven, the joy-draught raised aloft; thrice he runneth round the worlds. Thoughts lick the plant of marvel when singers draw near with their chant. Thy streams pass beyond the ewe’s fine wool; as thou art strained, the charges flow ever. When, O drop, thou art steeped with kine in twin bowls, pressed, thou sittest in the tubs, O Soma. Cleanse thyself, Soma, finder of the will, that we may hymn thee. Run round the sheep’s fleece, as dear honey. Smite all the greedy fiends, O drop. Let us speak mightily at the share-feast, lords of brave sons. # Tale In the days when the world was younger and the boundary between earth and heaven ran thin as morning mist, there lived in the high places a wondrous being known as the Golden Drop. Some called him Soma, others knew him as the Sky-Born Nectar, but all who spoke his name did so with reverence, for he was no ordinary spirit of the wild places. The Golden Drop dwelt in the realm between realms, where the roots of the great World-Tree drank from celestial springs and where the first light of dawn kissed the last shadows of night. He was born of thunderstone and starfire, conceived when lightning struck the sacred peaks and honey flowed from the wounds of the mountain. His birth-cry was the roar of cataracts, his first breath the wind that stirs the barley before harvest. Now it came to pass that Indra the Thunder-Bearer, mightiest of the sky-lords, grew weary from his endless battles with the serpents of drought and the giants of storm. His great hammer grew heavy in his hand, and the light in his eyes dimmed like embers at day's end. The other gods looked upon their champion with sorrow, for without Indra's strength, the rains would fail and the earth would wither like autumn leaves. It was then that the wise seers, those gray-bearded watchers who read the patterns in smoke and flame, spoke of the Golden Drop who dwelt in the high places. "There lives one," they said, "who can restore the Thunder-Bearer's might, but the path to him is perilous, and he must be won through sacred rite and ritual." So began the Great Seeking. The seers climbed to the windswept heights where golden eagles nest and where the first snow never melts. There, upon the Sheep's Broad Back—a plateau so named for its covering of clouds that gleamed white as fleece—they found the Golden Drop dancing in streams of liquid light, racing like quicksilver through channels carved in living stone. But the Golden Drop was wild and free, swift as a courser scenting battle, elusive as the falcon that stoops from the sun. To capture him required cunning greater than a fox's and patience deeper than the roots of oak. The seers wove nets of sacred grass and sang songs older than the hills, their voices rising like smoke to draw him down. When at last the Golden Drop was caught, he did not struggle as mortal creatures do, but instead began his Great Purification. Like a knight donning armor for holy war, he clothed himself in robes of light that touched the very vault of heaven. Through filters fine as spider's silk he flowed, cleansing himself of all earthly taint, growing brighter with each passage until he shone like molten gold poured from the smith's crucible. Seven times seven the Drop purified himself, and with each cleansing he grew in power and wisdom. His voice became the voice of thunder rolling across the sky's broad back, his whispers the wind that brings the rain. The very earth trembled with joy at his transformation, and the rivers sang in harmony with his passage. When the purification was complete, the Golden Drop had become something more than he was—part earth-spirit, part sky-lord, part divine nectar of the gods. He was the Bridge-Builder between worlds, the one who could carry the prayers of mortals to the halls of heaven and bring the blessings of the gods down to the waiting earth. The seers bore him in vessels wrought of silver and gold, down from the high places to where Indra sat in his hall of clouds. And when the Thunder-Bearer drank of the Golden Drop's essence, his strength returned threefold. His eyes blazed like stars newborn, his hammer sang in his grasp, and his voice shook the pillars of the world. The drought-serpents fled before his renewed might, and the storm-giants bowed their heads in submission. But the Golden Drop's gifts were not for the gods alone. Each dawn he sent his golden streams flowing down to the world of men, bringing with them the gifts of inspiration and wisdom. Poets found their tongues loosened to speak of beautiful things, warriors discovered courage burning bright in their hearts, and common folk learned the secret names of growing things and the hidden paths through the forest. The cows gave sweeter milk when touched by his essence, the grain grew taller in the fields, and children born under his influence were marked with the gift of second sight. He was the Friend of All Good Folk, the enemy of the dark spirits that skulk in shadow and bring misfortune to honest households. Yet the Golden Drop remained ever wild at heart, ever free. Though he blessed both gods and mortals with his gifts, he could not be commanded or controlled. Like the wind that comes and goes as it will, like the rain that falls when the clouds are ready, he gave his gifts freely but answered to no master save the ancient laws that govern the turning of the seasons and the dance of the stars. In the old days, when the seers still climbed to the high places and knew the songs that could call him down, the Golden Drop would come at the time of great festivals. The people would gather with their vessels of milk and honey, their offerings of barley and sweet herbs, and he would flow among them like liquid sunlight, filling their cups with joy and their hearts with the knowledge of divine things. Those who drank of him in those days became as gods themselves for a time, seeing past and future spread before them like a great tapestry, understanding the speech of birds and beasts, feeling in their bones the slow pulse of the earth's deep heart. They sang songs that made the very stones weep for beauty, crafted works that endured long after their makers had returned to dust, and spoke prophecies that guided their people through dark times and brought them safe to prosperous days. But as the world grew older and the paths between the realms grew narrow, fewer and fewer knew the way to the high places where the Golden Drop danced in streams of light. The songs of summoning were forgotten, the sacred vessels were buried or melted down for common gold, and the knowledge of his true nature faded like mist before the morning sun. Yet the wise say that the Golden Drop still dwells in the high places, still purifies himself in the streams of starlight, still waits for those bold enough to seek him out. On certain nights, when the moon is dark and the stars shine bright as diamonds, travelers in the mountains speak of seeing golden streams flowing down the rockface, and hearing laughter like the sound of silver bells ringing in the wind. And sometimes, in the hour before dawn when the world holds its breath between night and day, those with eyes to see may glimpse him still—the Golden Drop, the Sky-Born Nectar, dancing eternal in the place between earth and heaven, keeper of the old wisdom, friend to gods and mortals alike, waiting for the day when the songs of summoning shall be sung once more, and the bridges between the worlds shall be built anew.