The leafy bough where Yama holds his feast with the gods— thither our father, the lord of our house, did follow the path of the fore-elders.

He, walking that path of the olden kin, wandering down that dreadsome road, I watched him go, though my heart drew back—yet ever did I long again to behold him.

Thou madest, my son, a new-wrought chariot, lacking wheels, born of thy thought alone—its shaft is one, yet it turneth every way. Unseen it is, yet thou ridest it still.

The car thou didst set rolling, fashioned by seers filled with the breath of song— after it rolled the sāman’s tune, floating hence upon a bark.

Who sired the boy? Who loosed the chariot to its course?
Who can now declare to us this day how the burden was unbound and the debt made clean?

When that burden was lifted, the crown arose; the root lay stretched before, and behind was shaped the going-forth.

Behold the seat of Yama—called the gods’ own hall.
There is his pipe blown loud; there is he, clad in hymns, made fair.