Let them speak forth; yea, let us all speak.
Speak ye a word unto the pressing-stones, which speak themselves, when ye, O stones, O mountains, swift and strong, filled with soma, do bear aloft your call, your cry to mighty Indra.

They speak as multitudes, by hundreds, yea, by thousands—they roar with mouths of gold.
Toiling at their worthy task, these goodly labourers, the stones, have tasted of the holy offering ere the priest hath touched it.

They cry aloud, and thus discover sweetness; they growl o’er the flesh well-cooked.

Gnawing the bough of the ruddy tree, those gluttonous bulls have bellowed in their longing.

High is their speech by joy of the joy-giving draught.
With shriek unto Indra, thus they found the honey.
Fit for the sisters' clasp, these cunning ones have danced, and with their trampling have made the earth to heed.

The eagles have lifted their cry to the heights; within their dens, the black-horned deer have danced with might.

Downward they go to meet the lowly place, spilling seed in plenty from the sun-bright drink.

As strong draft-horses yoked in rank, they hold the bulls that draw the pole.
When panting, gulping, they do roar, their snort is as the chargers’ cry.

Sing now to those with tenfold paths—
ten girthbands, ten binding cords, ten yokes, ten reins they bear—O sing unto the deathless ones who draw ten poles in yoke—yea, fingers, perchance.

These stones swift-footed wear ten leathern bands; sweet is the gear that girds them round.

They take their share from the first-born stalk, the beestings of the pressed-down soma bloom.

The soma-eaters kiss the pale twin bays of Indra; they milk the plant and sit upon the hide.

Drinking the honey-juice they’ve drawn,
Indra waxeth strong, spreads forth, and plays the bull.

Thy plant is a bull, and thou shalt come to no harm.
Ever art thou fed, rich in meat and might.
Thou art fair to him whose rite hath pleased thee, for thy greatness—as a man is glad of a bride richly dowered,

O stones that press the draught.

Bored or unbored, ye stones tire not, nor flag.
Immortal, unhurt, ever-young, firm-fixed, unmoved, full stout, unthirsting, thirstless stand ye.

Your fathers, the mountains, are set fast from age to age; they long for rest and stir not from their place.

Unfading, friends of the golden draught, like golden trees, they have made Heaven and Earth attend their roar.

So do the stones cry at their loosing, or in their path they speak with tramp and thud— the stones, while drinking soma straight.

Like farmers sowing grain, they strew their seed— engorging the soma, yet do they not lessen him, though they gnaw.

When soma was pressed in the holy rite, they lifted up their voice, like boys at play, who jostle at their mother.

Unloose the stones that pressed the draught, and free the fire-born thought of the priest who drew it.

Let them roll hence, seen now as stones once more.