Come hither, Aśvins twain! Come swift as wind and thought, ye healers of the lame. Golden are your chariots, wrought by Tvaṣṭṛ's hand, and drawn by steeds that know not weariness. Harness them now; the dawn is breaking pale, and mortals call upon your mercy.

Ye who have borne the Bhujyu across the sea, ye who restored to Rjrāśva the sight of his eyes, ye who have made the blind to see and the crippled whole — hear now our prayer! Your golden wheels do turn eternal; your path is marked by honey-dew. What man hath suffered that ye cannot heal? What wound hath ye not bound?

Come to us, O Aśvins, in this sacred hour. We have prepared the soma-juice for you, the hymns are sung, the altar-fire burns bright. Your horses paw the earth; already they sense the dawn approaching. The night grows thin. The creatures stir. And we, thy worshippers, do stretch our hands toward heaven.

Grant us thy favour, ye whose glory burneth like the morning star! Grant us thy healing touch, that we may live and prosper. Swift riders of the sky, twin brothers born of the twilight — ye are the hope of all who suffer, the solace of the afflicted. Come! Come now, before the sun doth fully rise!

Thy names are many, O Aśvins: Protectors, Helpers, Saviors of men. But most beloved is this — the Healers. For healing is thy truest glory. And so we call upon thee, as our fathers called, as shall our children call, world without end. Come, O swift ones, in thy golden car!